I'd come get my things
But my hands are covered
In the smeared black ash
Of my unholy decayed past

These little things,
They bring new sounds
Fill my ungrateful head
With sounds of the dead

And I hope on a stage
My memory no longer fades
And you let it bloom
No longer wilt with doom

Because in every room
I have cleaned them out
Filled them with flowers of you
I hope you have no doubt

No matter where you go,
No matter what you do
There will always be a part of you
And I hope I make you proud too