She's a thousand miles from where she needs to be,
With a hundred and seven things to do.
And the only things she manages are
"Wince, breath, hold it in, and turn blue."
Exhaling,
She turns to see a path carved of her own destruction

In her wake.

Unaware of how she got here, and now:
Her heart is torn in two.
You think it's wether it's him or wether it's you.
But it's wether it's to sleep forever or stay 'til forever gives up on her.
Involuntarily,
She stumbles on the trail of bodies

In her wake.

It's months or maybe millennia later,
Time has no compassion here.
Her immortal face is as unwavering as stone.
But the scars she's counted have undoubtably grown.
Her bones hide secrets the whole world knows.
And though she'll burn from the heat of the stones they throw.
Everything is still drowning amongst waves

In her wake.

But she knows how to make time and all of everything stand still.
She can ease the world of her venomous touch.
With a single bolt of lead and palm full of small white relief,
At last,
All of us can be put out of her misery.
Only the obligatory tears will fall
When the guest books from her history spill from the celebratory halls

At  *her wake.