You were always the quiet one
With strange ambition for oblivion.
The bite of the cold is always you to me.
The smell of the quiet brings your taste to me.
You were always the twisted one
Who drank your solace from anyone
For the strength of your hate I loved your bitterness
For the blood in your soul I loved your emptiness.
We always wonder why good things die
We cry them our poison and we drink ourselves dry
And cut flowers always die.
The bite of the cold is always you to me.
The smell of the quiet brings your taste to me.
