Forever Grey - The Style Is Death

Under the cold of tears she’ll decay and be warm. The style is death. A white rose in a morphine dream. A joke to amuse life. Goodbye into a snowstorm. While you shake the thoughts, memories of conversation. Come back the line like eager sadness. A knife hollows them out. Hollows them out. A thin skin of black letters. A thin skin of black letters. I make myself sick. Born with thoughts of disappointment. Hands out, palms dry. Give me something to grasp. False truth or fake hope. We say yes to death.