She hears the beating of a sick, sad heart, and is willing to shape and mend.
Open up, and she’ll be like a dearest long, lost friend.
She’s the metaphor of loneliness, the epitome of pain.
Madame Heartache. The boys and girls all call her by that name.
The embodiment of sweet suffering. No morphine will numb the pain.
The beautiful disaster with remedies for the lame.
She’ll hold you close to ease your sorrow, if only for a while.
But if she holds you long enough, she’ll smile a twisted little smile.
The ghost of all pained lovers, the muse of sorrow and black.
Beware of her. There she stands. You’d better watch your back.
The innocent look of an angel, but with eyes of sadness cold.
Heed my warning, lovers, she’s a demon you will loathe.