Eight days a week he lays upon his bed of bones,
Filled with nothing but the ashes of his dreams.
Eight days a week she stands upon his grave,
Flowers in her hands for the one she couldn't save.
Eight days a week the memory of his smile fades,
From her poets mind come the blades;
Why him
Why him...
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
Eight days a week he lays upon his bed of bones,
Filled with nothing but the ashes of his dreams.
Eight days a week she stands upon his grave,
Flowers in her hands for the one she couldn't save.
Eight days a week the memory of his smile fades,
From her poets mind come the blades;
Why him
Why him...
Never forget the smiles he shared with you, for if you do then his memory will be lost...