You were always the quiet one

with strange ambition for oblivion.

The bite of the cold is always you to me.

The smell of the quiet brings your taste to me.



You were always the twisted one

who drank your solace from anyone

For the strength of your hate I loved your bitterness

For the blood in your soul I loved your emptiness.



We always wonder why good things die

we cry them our poison and we drink ourselves dry

and cut flowers always die.



The bite of the cold is always you to me.

The smell of the quiet brings your taste to me.