In Stupor Divine, with head in sky,
I wonder about or even why.
Call me ill, but what it seems,
is she loves to taunt me in my dreams.
We walked the streets of wasted life,
I had her hand and she had my knife.
And all to be hold was her perfect face,
in this wasteland of a place.
Together we watched the end of time.
Content to the end because she was mine.
She was my world, and that's all I ever cared.
But I can't remember what we even shared.