Sitting all alone again in the dark,
sometimes you prefer it this way,
sometimes you desire vicinity,
in a way you never felt before.

What is this sorcery?
What is this madness that flows through you like nothingness?
Devotion, attachment,
yet there is no retort.

Even the sky above the grimly desert would bow to you, cry to you,
could not reciprocate.
All that's left is the withering rose at road's end.

Why must it be this trail?
You burn, you freeze, you flourish
no matter the result,
as notoriety will be immortalized,
upon this cursed and blessed land.