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Withering, dieing, why are you always lieing?

Missing, intruding, why are you always running?

I swear, I cry, I hurt, and I die..Inside

But do you care?

No

But do you care?

No...I guess not.





Withering away like the oldest rose

and swaying to and fro

The wind is my friend, the wind is my skin

But break me, and the wind becomes my enemy



Trust not the dieing's heart, but their memory

For only in memories can true feelings be known

I don't make sense to you now, but soon my dear; Soon it will be Oh so very clear.



The withering are coming

The dieing are present

and the Loved ones are gone...



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