In every death there is tales of peace and misery.
Taken away from the people and things that they used to see.
The killer laughs at the death ever so selfishly.
Red roses bloom as the soul drifts so aimlessly.

Whispering tales of destroyed hopes and dreams.
Everything here is not what it seems to be.
Drifting away the mysterys to the sea.
The blood of the moon in their face shines so endlessly.

The saddest of truths of truths, never trust anybody.
As the wind blew they sing of their memorys.
Red roses bloom and their petals start now to fall ever so slowly.
Time ticks away and so does the memory of the existance that used to be.

The killer crys ever so guiltily, feeling alone.
He can finally see what he has done to me.
What he's become is a monster so easily.
Slipping away is the being of me today.