| Theres blood on my hands, a linege of death, a conspiring hand of deceit follows behind my every step. I'll stare the dealer in the eyes, take the Hand I'm dealt, and see what ever he trys to hide. A Bleeding rose, leading me to see where the blood flows. It grows, exceeding myself graven image in my own vanity, I feel, insanity. Broken is the crypt keepers token, soft spoken, the voice rings out, spreading through and through the whisper, of a dead end shifter. Reading these lines that are filled with drama, I sit and ponder those that wander. Thorns jagged and red, cutting the flesh speeding this process. The bleeding rose, leading me to see where the blood flows, it grows, exceeding its self graven image, of love and deceit, my own vanity, raises my insanity. I'm bleeding with the rose, wounds of love, I shove the rose deeper into the wound, waiting for the deadly swoon, your trust, my care, it seems all trapped in my dispair. Within the crypt, in there, you will see, it wasn't all up to me, just another way to bleed, with the bloody rose, sturdy the flow, it grows, exceeding the betrayal. |
