Blank stares into dead space
Little worriers checking heart rates...

It won’t always be black roses for you
It’ll be black mould...

The fit is the scream of silence
As she floats high above the burning field...

I took a journey
And found myself...

Let’s talk about trauma
Where to begin...

The blue moon stood high above the trees
Casting a pallor onto the woods below...

In the darkness of her sanctuary, she hides
A fable of hatred, exiled against her will...

Across the organisation
We know there will be losers...

Rebel, rebel broken and dishevelled
The rolling stone reduced to a pebble...

The fire started to flicker and fade
In the dark and stormy wood...

I have spent too much of myself
Lamenting the passing of angels...

Your spectre keeps me sleepless
Smiling wide into the darkness...