Tears burning their own type of pain onto my face,
the silhouette of every tear, traces of another "scar".
what am I waiting for? this doubt just shatters faith.
I can't take the pain I carelessly created...
I can't write your name until my trust is reinstated,
all I need is for you to bury me,
to bring forth my foretold death;
bring truth to my fictional prophecy.
and speak of irony in my epitaph.
walking by graves with names etched in stone,
is that enough of a life story to be told?
should I fly away from this dim sunset?
I'll only meet another, to follow the last.
the last time I found any joy in the light,
was when I could look past your tears-
long enough to see the shadow of a smile.
and I bleed my own depression into death,
only to find you were always my escape:
from life and death and the pain that binds them,
could you save me in death too?