She remembers the fever burns of memories,
and the corridor marked with her paces.
She wants so desperately to make an escape
into the cold, dead arms of night.
At times she just wants to lie
still under a blanket, and cry out
the flood of the dammed tears inside.
There are days when she longs to crawl
like a child into her Reaper's arms,
and he rid of her pain,
with those soothing hands.
Just tell her it will all be fine again.
Is there hope for a better dawn?
Tell her that there is one rising
from her darkened days.