Oh,
Cold
Sharp, yet
Inconspicuous
Movements of
Death or even
Life... I call it
Quits when It
Hurts too good
I call it quits
When it burns
Well. But if it's
Too **** cold
There is really no point and will
Absolutely never be a true point
In feeling the point of
This inconspicuous
Death. Blades of
Regret and that
Remorse and the
Lethal nostalgia.
When you feel it,
When you feel
This you'll know
There's no place
Like home.