It was not but a secret
Her serenades are asleep.
Yet the breeze carries it,
Toned through wild hills.

It is no secret she remains worn—
Perhaps a thing of the past,
Where she lay—carolling
To winds of her wonder on surface.

A way is but a path to life,
Yet death doesn’t feel any less desolate.
The same lone lyre, played the very same.
Though, when truths to be told—
Being one with the mother seems
Quite peaceful.

Maybe it's our flesh that limits us,

Yet tearing it apart remains but a question.

I can't wipe your blood when mine runs red,
I can't piece you back when I lay a puzzle.
I can't drink in your tears,
When drowning calls my soul.

Oh, for all a nights bliss,
A woke for them to make haste.
Stands them two, a gliss
For their strides, to be a waste.

There he goes, mine to love
With her hand in his
For his to mine, a torn glove.
was my eyes a miss?
Or his, a sharp trove ?

Would you think her hands are soft ?
That mine lays a thorn too deep
Would you think her hearts aloft
That mine lays far too deep?

There she goes, mine to wed.
With his ring in hers
For her to mine, a sharp lead
Was his tone a soft purr
Or mine a bit red?

Would you think his eyes a lot bright?
And mine lacks it's luster?
Would you think his charms a bit right ?
And mine lacks it's luster?

Oh, for all a night's bliss
A grave for them to make haste
Runs them two, a gliss
For their strides, to be a tale