The Gardens of Blood

Under the cold, moonlit sky,
Lay the gardens, grown from blood,
A bed of tragedies lie askew,
As I lament in solitude,
Upon the tragedies of my own life,
I cant help but long to be with them,
Lie in the cold, damp ground,
To be as one of them,
To have not a care in the world,
Leaving the living, to their own demise.

As I think of my last moments,
I convince myself there is nothing left,
I think of the damage caused,
I think of the pain inflicted,
I think of you, my drug, my love,
You took my heart, my life,
The whispers of your voice,
Echo through eternity,
For you are the reason I lament,
You, are the reason for my emptiness.

Even in death, I be unable to escape,
The love that could have been,
I am cursed with the burden of regret,
The obsession of what could have been,
The obsession of what should have been,
Now you are lost to me forever,
You moved on through the ages,
Perhaps I should do the same,
Enough tragedy has already occurred,
Why should I become another black rose?

Why grow my own stone from blood?