Soul exposed to the blood red curse of a sore, long-lost and forgotten.
  Took time to sow the seeds of my weeds and now all of my fruits, they’ve turned rotten.
  A quick-fire mind of torsos entwined and a feel for anarchic expression.
  A glimmer of red, as they lay in my head, with their boundless energy - tension.
  Moans to the old and the grave of the bold will never bring back all the will.
  The faceless grew cold and they cry to my soul and my fingertips pale from the kill.
  A senseless command of the last we must stand and I never felt water like this.
  A favourable stance, as we die in this dance, and I bleed as I take your last kiss.
  A will; broken in two is a curse that we knew as we howled with the wolves in the night.
  But now at this trap from the old night-man’s cap we must drink in this horrified sight.
  A paled reminder of the daughter who’s blinder to all of the pain and the strife.
  She played with the dolls as her house it grew cold and her body it emptied of life.