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Once a beautiful bouquet,
nothing but the best of roses,
now every petal has been torn out,
leaving gore and ignorance splattered violently everywhere.

The tragedy of the rose's life,
the tragedy of its sight,
the infected blindness of the heart,
the whimpering echoes of the whore.

The blood tears of my pain wiped slowly away,
the pieces of my crystal childhood pieced together slowly,
making my arm bleed with their shattered soul and memory,
the glass reflects upon my face and my stitched lucidity,
not a pretty sight, but that of pure reality.

Bliss that hides in the mist,
killers that are trapped inside,
fuckers and angels that die,
come with me to nowhere,
its the last place on the ride.