So many sharp shards of things have been flung between you and I
Words like weapons of war, spat out and screamed,
yet even such words are nothing in the shadow of this great good bye.
What do I do now, now that the bleeding will not stop
and memories pour out from the ravages of all these broken things?
We are the broken things, and O how we bleed my dear,
silent drops of pain rushed to flowing crimson fear, festering with regret.
And there lays the quiet corpse of home, I hear the grave diggers now.

But perhaps there is still hope
perhaps the dead can live again
perhaps when we have gone farther up and further in
we will find home again