Your Spit As A Flower On The Tomb In Me

This place I've never seen before
Goes by the name of cruelty
Thunder cracks among black clouds
And the rain reminds me of tears of beauty.
You cruel teaser, from foolishness I'll suffer
Just me alone, my kind of last... supper.
When no one is here to hear…
When no one is here to share…
No one is here to hear me
No one is here to share
My thoughts, my dreams I did hide out-side of my sleep.

Walking on road in thickening night
Where left hands path is right for feeble minded!
The sky keeps bleeding above me
While your spit is like the flower on the tomb in me...
Your spit, as a flower on the tomb in me.

Running on road in thickening night where left-hand path
Is right for feeble minded, truly blinded and, naive.

The sky keeps bleeding above me
While your spit, is like the flower on the tomb in me...
Your spit as a flower on the tomb in me...

The story goes on and on
I'll keep on begging for more and more
This is the way the story writes itself:
"What should I do with this
Would you please tell me
What should I do when story is writing...itself?"

The sky keeps bleeding above me
While your spit, is like the flower on the tomb in me...
Your spit as a flower on the tomb in me
The sky keeps bleeding above me
While your spit, is like the flower on the tomb in me...
Your spit as a flower on the tomb in me...