I could write metaphors of loves sinking into twilight
But I can only lie here and wonder
If the sun has set on ours
I could write of hearts
Breaking from the weight of their sorrow
But I forget that I was still trying to mend my own
I could try to fall asleep,
But I'd only torture myself
With dreams of what our future could hold
Call this my eternal depression
Scathing and scarring my faith in our love
Unwilling to let me free
I am a captive of my own cursed mind
Lying in my darkened room
Sprawled motionless against the door
I realise my fate
I am the lock, you are the key
My ticket to salvation
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The best laid page of vice and din are often wrote in haste.
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Flare
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The best laid page of vice and din are often wrote in haste.
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