All the route-less dreams,
Mixing up inside her head.
Once dreamt of beautiful flowers from her strange love,
Now mere dead roses in a maiden’s bridal bed.

Thoughts that gather under the trees,
Haunting mists that now wait for me.
Unholy earth only inches away,
One such exception for having the last grave.

Is it lonely with the shadows as my only seraphs in the black of night?
Even in this place the stars dim their light,
Maybe in respects to the solemn spirit that stay lingering.
Such a sad menagerie.

Her voice is sepulchral,
The only sound the bereft allow.
To lull their lost purgatorial loves to peace,
Singing to the shallow ground.

Transcending more than just the dusty silence,
She waits for what she needs.
Her strange love to return to her,
And join her in eternal sleep.