The sweet trickle
Against pure glass
The leaves soaring high
Far away on earth

My life is empty
Many vile people lay
Pondering why in pools of blood
In my room there is only ruin

It takes more to mend
Necrotic flowers bent down
Under the weight of sorrow
As I decided to cease

Tender are the wounds of mine
Red are the roses you grow
I paint them with my blood in slow motion
As the flesh parts
A true monument of my wreckage
In a pale shade of emerald