I wander upon fields of dying grass
with lips that taste of camomile and gin.
A rhythmic step that squanders mem'ries past
fuels boiling blood, the product of my sins.
I wander still alone in search of skies
that open to a Heaven yet unknown
but will the blossom clouds devour my lies
and throw me to the flames that sit below?
I'm not a child that thrusts against the fists
that stab with pointed fingers towards my chest
and struggling with the bonds against my wrists
I lay in yellowed fringe: forever rest.
I pray the sky will open yet to save
the poisoned remnants of my golden grave.