If I could
I'd fashion words
That'd pierce your soul.

What happens to the rose when it dies?
When it is chocked by its thorny foes
Does it green blood soak the earth to water more plants of love?
Do its crimson leaves fold their petals in pain?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
By the hands of a stray lover in search of a gift
Do the lovers drain all their tear wells?
Perhaps they merry as its mortal remains
Passes from his hand to her hand, from his heart to her heart

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Is it ever eulogized and its memorials held
Or is the emblem of love left in pile ash of bygone?
Is the rose ever buried and how does its epitaph read?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Does it body like man’s decay leaving nothing but dry bones?
Is it folded and placed inside an old love book?
Who knows what happens to the rose when it dies?

We run with flames in our hearts
in our hands
in our voices
in the lands,
We stand on the rocks letting people know that
we are here
that we don't stand for us
that we stand for them
we've—been here
we've—slept here
we've—loved the soil
every inch of its worth—here.
And to think that we'd step off our Rock, now?
For every one of us that They knock down
They exude monsters out of the cracks in Their teeth
laughter roars
money pours
They've created unspeakable wars
Let us be.

Every step
An echo
Every breath
Wasn’t sure if it was the last

Walking through
Misery and pain
I catch the tears
Of a fallen night rain

It has been long since
The sky has smiled upon
This barren land
Which I once called home

Trapped
This broken heart
Has forgotten hope
In a falling star