Love me slow and not with haste, fill my heart with all your grace. This fickle skin will wither away with the changing seasons burning astray.
Wrapped up in the cloaks of darkness like a banshee in the grey, hooded cloth; I’m wishing on the ashes to remind me of the fire that started the very flame in my bleeding veins.
Let the wail of the woman replace the moan of the wolf; when love and hope fly away from my soul - set me free with the callous winds, live unbruised and promise me that you will sigh no more.
Then leave me on the ground to rot in this haze, I will pass just like those yesterdays. Worry not about the chill in my bones, I would rather die in the frosty tomb than live in this loaned body of scattered remains rearranged by the crescent full moon.
Now, love me slow and not with haste and fill my heart with all your grace.