And I’m to blame for yesterday’s sorrow,

Yet not to be held count for today’s dirty farrow

A seed is planted in the rubble of her shattered and tortured scorn,
It blooms in the wake of her walking stillborn
She looks in his eyes, spitting image of her demise
He reads of her forgotten
And for this punish the one who knows not his name
He’s there for her to relinquish what wasn’t yesterday
May he who dances with reality- turn and sign over immediately
‘Cause he now knows the hue of her bruise and winces with an understanding delight

‘Cause who may dance is one of great power
But reads of torture and cower
Games are won not in the ring
But extoled through rightful planning

Cumbersome emotions that do not carry
-Well with the abysses
When I look onto the old flower
The old flowers look unto me
She bleeds only to impress herself
To know she is all too human

A penny for thoughts,
A quarter for doubt,
But no price for the fall