It is a decaying void
In blackness and in thought
That I find my cry once more
In futile tries of reconciliation.

In a lonely made rose bed
Falling pale and darkened dead
Paving the flowering thorns
Cleansing the devil's horns.

So like the carvings in one's wrists
It burns itself unknowingly destroying its being
Like lost memories kept in scars to rebound
And to return is to face a dead flower's kiss.

The petals engulfed by blackness
Bending thorns a lonely flower exposed
As if a disease lies upon its fairness
The enchantments it held forever opposed.