Letting you go was the hardest thing to do
So I found my solace on a lonely bench
Under the trees, softly rippling waters sleep
The flowers are alive usually

In this storm, they're looking for the sun
That once promised to rid them of the pain
There's rain in this part of town - I'm drenched
A cold breeze rushes through my shirt

I can feel my shirt flap against me like sails
It's cold outside
I shiver a bit in the hellish wind, frigid and pale
White flowers turn grey

Pools of black water at their feet
There's no will to live or be heard
When I see the leaves flutter
The boughs break

The sky cries
The sun is out of sight
Thunder grumbles, waking the scenery
Animals scurry back to their homes

And this place welcomes me
I've etched you in a long forgotten memory
Stretched it at times
Till it finally tore at the seams

Deeds of whether, in moist eyes
The problem we detain, is your terror...
Intended of weary and cold shoulders, a cough of lives
In waiting, your presence of many and mind, to compare...

Salt of an ought, sweet of demand?
Substitute me, for a question to land
A privilege in the renown I produce, with a babes hand?
The question we threat, we sigh is a different peace to challenge

Spare significance, to a worldly stare
In a patient craving, for the ecstasy of a wish
The children of spite, notice an answers care
Does to due, and dread in doles of since...

Does this dragon, this wage of responsibility...
Owe me, the duty in a climbing avarice, solemn
For a stranger voice to prove, the irony of a vague city
Sorry, but no wish in the rage of riches, is a subtlety to keep the wind...?

An ancient boat, with a right to find the better...
The creation of worth in the mysterious hands of compliance
Have stepped forward, with a soapy smile, poison to the letter?
We understand your worlds, your chastity has another lie:

Known knowing a wish for the very vanity you espoused
Is a dead angel, if the rain is to be our friend?
Where the hell is your soul? your chance came and housed
Yours, a soul obvious to life, but not even love has one to spend...

Tarts...
And the worth of a woman to deliver the news, to you
Not me, an original silence of domain, that shewed the infant for smarts
In the name of a careful rest and duped relaxation, a quiet coup
Come of age, with your specialness in mind; do women in love feed scars?