Scarce are the lips unlicked by the fires tongue
Raised by the mothers nature, wild and undone
in the moments your will is pushed, ash tray

Hold to the weeds and strike at the rain
They are the unruly ones whose desire plays with the wind and burns everything within touches reach
But not to subject a detrimental flame upon which they came

No, we are water in an iced age burning to escape the pain.

We have ardent inclination to fetch whats ripped bare from our hearts
Baren, left, we hold nothing but our broken parts in a box
left by the bypass ruined by rain and grass stains, a product of the golden days oxidized and rusty. 
Look at my eyes, from pain

this must be virtue. 

I promise, in sickness and in health i will never hurt you