All alone, laid down among black roses,
eyes wide open, blank, yet watchful,
she waits, in blissful sleep, hoping.
A fickle hope, umarred by darkness.
All alone, in the orchards of Death.
Black fingers of the coming night,
lace themselves about her, strangling,
yet merciful and serene, a paradox,
granting serenity to her soul, abhorred,
by her mind, fighting hard to overcome it.
All alone, laid down among black roses,
limbs as rigid as death, yet alive.
she waits, for an eternity and a day,
for the freedom she strives to attain.
All alone, in the orchards of Death.
Descending darkness, covers her,
in an imprentratable shroud of fear.
What lies beyound the darkness?
None can tell, yet all have known,
the culmination of life amongst death.
All alone, laid down among black roses,
immersed in the cold, dark pools of loss.
The icy kiss of lost souls gently caress,
the once silken hair that adourned her head
All alone, all alone in the orchards of Death.
