Sometimes the psyches fly on their own, be careful not to step on them. Thread softly so your feet don't get cut by the glass. The river flows gently on their veins, but their screams echo through your head. These are the flowers for the beauty in death.
I see ourselves, entwined in this dance of the flesh. We continuely search to grasp, what is left of you and I on the bed.
We move further into the abyss, we fall under the sin of the agony.