Just a random poem - comments are very much appreciated.

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I'll write a theory,
Reel upon reel of golden ink,
Emblaze scarlet feeling over eternal parchment;
A tear spilled for every truth;
That first love doesn't die,
A growing wound that bleeds crimson,
Staining ivory dreams with reality;
I love to love.

Pale fingers kiss those keys,
Play for me the moonlight seranade;
Oaken wood stained with my sin,
I'll remain to listen,
Faery-bells to my unsaved ears,
Cast me into a winter garden,
And bloom with me in the cold weather.

I'll melt in spring,
A thousand dewdrops upon your face,
Yet I'll remain as an eternal spirit;
Kiss the unholy symbol that hangs at my throat;
I'm made from ice,
Summer shall refuse my being,
Rob me of my porcelain and charcoal,
A bronze that burns me,
Like those men in my imagination.

An unholy mistress to my own creations,
I force them to walk through the tunnel of Hell;
Deprive them of love,
Twist them in the smokey tower,
My tower of my own reality;
I'll crown the Fallen with russet,
And marr his skin;
Ebony eyes are a fragment of this fractured soul,
Ever alone,
Ever in love.

I'm the tortured one,
Forbidden from within the prison of ice,
Subject me to saintly lies,
You know my mind refuses to listen;
These eyes remain wide,
Inky with a haze of tears,
But my mind flies,
And those words never reach this frozen core,
I save that for whisperings,
Whisperings of love.

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Those who find ugly meanings, in beautiful things, are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. -Oscar Wilde-