Rotting flowers can still smell sweet,
When I’m surrounded by graves,
Desperate to taste something pure.
Starving for some sense of humanity.
Thorns can still feel soft,
When they were the only bed I’ve known,
When the bittersweet stench of your bloom,
Has stained my eyes in a bloody haze.
I’m to weak to feel rage anymore,
And it felt good to be held, for once,
If only by cold metal bar...