Her eyes are a dying fire,
Losing wars and hunting shores,
I can visualize her breath on the stained glass,
Then I hear the voice inside her head,
Harshly whispering how she's better off dead.

Crumbling into the bed of roses at her feet,
Falling into the emotions and broken bones,
Shouting out from somewhere below,
The crows have her arms now,
They're moving on to her feet.

Where did the time go when you were young?
The viper suddenly struck you down,
Under the stars above.
The midnight dove.