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Description
There are some kinds of pain you can write poetry about
Pour emotion into black scratches on a paper till it's full
And you're able to move on
But there's also a pain that just refuses to be captured
Like a cloud in a cage
It slips away fro the scratches
Poets of the ages have tried in their turn
But this is a pain that transcends poetry
It is the very tearing of the soul
The fall of an Iron Curtain Stalin never could match
The brief touch of a dark spectre, the prospect of eternal separation
That cannot be defined into simple, frail prose
Or styled with the ribbon and lace of poetry
It is primeval
Unforgiving
Impartial, but cruel in its impartiality
Sudden in its onset
Lingering in its death, for it is a memory
And the heart cannot bear to part with it
For fear that to let it go,
To lose it,
To smile, to laugh,
Would be to forget them
Because once they're gone
What else do we have but a memory?

Description
There are some kinds of pain you can write poetry about
Pour emotion into black scratches on a paper till it's full
And you're able to move on
But there's also a pain that just refuses to be captured
Like a cloud in a cage
It slips away fro the scratches
Poets of the ages have tried in their turn
But this is a pain that transcends poetry
It is the very tearing of the soul
The fall of an Iron Curtain Stalin never could match
The brief touch of a dark spectre, the prospect of eternal separation
That cannot be defined into simple, frail prose
Or styled with the ribbon and lace of poetry
It is primeval
Unforgiving
Impartial, but cruel in its impartiality
Sudden in its onset
Lingering in its death, for it is a memory
And the heart cannot bear to part with it
For fear that to let it go,
To lose it,
To smile, to laugh,
Would be to forget them
Because once they're gone
What else do we have but a memory?