I'm something hard to see,
your something far too free.
I'm twisted up in wicked love,
Your mystified by wistful lies.
I beg and plead that you love me,
you cry and moan to go back home.
No, not just yet my flower girl,
not just yet my queen.
You beg to bed to dream.
I watch you cry and feel a warmth,
yes, now you feel just as me.
To break our bones is nothing,
when lost is all we be.
So smell you flower I picked from home,
to give you a smile once more,
or cry on dear,
for I do fear,
the loss up there will hurt your core.
Above in home,
is where they roam,
the wicked ones with hope.
Below is warm,
and honest love,
the ones you hate all lie above.
Now, smell you flower,
smile or cry.
Yell your woes oft to the sky,
either way,
together we stay,
until we reach- our dying day.