A pure flower in the wind,
taken in by smog and chemicals.

An angel of darkness,
destroyed by earthly woes.

The secret love of my life,
now the thing I detest.

A delicious dish of food,
now a plate of cockroaches.

A strong tree leaning on her own,
now dependant on another.

A sight once seen as perfect,
I now puke at the very thought.

A taste so sweet and rare,
ash in my mouth and stomach.

Liptea be thy secret,
pain be thy end.

If thy purity can't be so or mine,
in the ground belongs thyself.