Red roses unfurled bright fires by the footsteps of the dead, embers bleed in candlelight orange as it fades into the night.
My fingers wrapped around her thorns, I bleed, but she is dying in my grasp.
Charcoal forts of tall clouds on the horizon, a star awaits the day.
Bereaving of the death of love, embraced by the cold winters of the absence, to beg and to have failed.
I count the lines on your palm, and I found nothing but me holding you.
If by chance a heart gives, a living soul be saved again.
He'll fill the void in your heart or the emptiness I gave, and he will be the hands you'll hold when you're away.