I walk upon this lonely road in a garden of the damned,
Where everyone will sleep one day and the ones who want to rot.
Their flowers wilt and spoil and brown from famine;
It isn’t true when people say they haven’t fought.
There’s blood among roses and posies and wildflowers,
And you don’t need thorns to make it so.
They slowly bleed up to the final hour;
Then nothing can save them and they feel alone.
There’s blood in the leaves and blood in the trees, everything decked in crimson,
No one seems to notice – except us, we do;
I wonder if they’re colorblind because they can’t see anything.
Maybe they just won’t accept the fact, that is, in fact, true.
We all lose petals, while some have much and others have very little,
But we don’t compare, because a loss is a loss, there is no meeting in the middle.
When Winter reigns in this world, there’s a snowy blanket of numb;
We all die, cease to exist,
But some can’t wait for Winter.
I walk upon this lonely road in a garden of the damned;
Except it isn’t lonely, not really;
I see the bodies everywhere.
It isn’t true when people say they haven’t fought.
((NOTE: when I say “damned” I don’t mean doomed to hell or junk like that. I mean “screwed” or that we’re all destined to die.))