Turning a tap clockwise, a mild annoyance of our creed.
A fever grew, and its meaning was lost to you and me.
Losers won, the writers pen cribbed some far away death,
It comes and goes like flowers growing near peppermint.
I long for that fall, which would take the heart of me,
entirely, to write some words about our destiny.
Love is the grief of all things wrong with me.
Countless sins, yet still hunting those winds of sweet.
Lost to me, Lost by me