Dust dances in fading sunlight to tunes from broken wind chimes.
It cloaks these beds once crimson from endless shameless passions
in guilty greys of pain;
and from the empty blackness of my soul,
a whispered question echoes across the silence of our pasts -
pray, can you tell, if dead roses smell?
Or is it just that the thorns that lasts?
It cloaks these beds once crimson from endless shameless passions
in guilty greys of pain;
and from the empty blackness of my soul,
a whispered question echoes across the silence of our pasts -
pray, can you tell, if dead roses smell?
Or is it just that the thorns that lasts?
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