Listening to Depeche Mode's

This sleepless creep,
knee-deep in the mire
of your mystery,
begs for a glance
or a single chance
to bask in your shadow
like a disciple or a dog,
a replaceable cog
in your machinery of love,
efficient, disposable:
a cigarette or a glove.

This wretched bag of nerves
barely contained,
disdained, maimed
by the jaws of jealousy,
prays at the shrine
where you recline,
wickedly divine,
with thieves and lovers,
midnight rovers
searching for treasure,
your golden future.

They all walk away
like the poor and stray,
devoid of your kiss,
the luminous bliss
you promise and deny
with hands of alabaster;
now they're living disasters
and carry their crosses
while counting their losses.

I look at them and cry,
for our lives were a lie,
a dance with a ghost
as cold-hearted as frost;
may our grief be repaid
with a grave and repose,
may darkness be sweet
as death draws close.

Still, fate won't free me,
I'm chained to your scent,
my descent is knowing you,
my demise is desiring you
with a wolf's appetite,
yet, not even a bite
for this sad, sorry bum,
the crumbles of lust and love
will remain my only meal,
a dirty piece of cloth
upon a wound that won't heal.