The wilted rose falls, and the crow cries for a crimson savior.  The dawn brakes the glass under the skin, happily broken, a mess in their favor.  To sad to stupid, the dust feeds our lungs, to the roads we take, pushing for a martyr.  Iam uncomfortable with this weather, iam uncomfortable with this pleasure.  From this sick story makes holes in the air, an empty space left to hold in.  Bewilder the sharp tongues and edges for they wander out in the open.  Waiting to exploit the prisoned and ******.  For i don't control the bird in the cage, i only control whether it lives or dies.  And i can't even keep my hands clean sometimes, cuts seeped in filth and end-trail vines.  Burdens blaze and feelings decay for our humanity, its like greed wrung dry from the stains of our lives.  Another rose falls and only a few fade while the rest of us still need, we still need.  For there is never plenty, as long someone still breathes.