I hold her gently and I hold her still,
She grows cold and still in my iron hard fist,
She still swims in the cells of my dead and drowning mind,

Still…

The summer has come
And the summer has long gone,
Taking with it her symphony of yesterday’s songs,

Still…

I smell her rose red essence,
Still as fresh as a summer’s bygone day,
Her memories float over the dry and sharp jagged thorns,

Still…

Everything in time will be silent,
No more will I hear her light footsteps,
Yet I still hear her soft weeping in my suicidal screams.