Nothing, nothing makes her smile. Promise of your little hugs.
There is no penitence for trust, the most naive of sins. Bruised into neglect, her body a fortunate gift. She said Im sorry but remittance bears no
Nothing, nothing makes her smile. Promise of your little hugs.
There is no remedy for trust, ruined by sins. A blanket of black roses tenderly covered her gift. Name scribed on marble, a name far too young to be hers.
Clothed in the sun, Moon under her feet, Crown of twelve stars, You ripped off her wings
These sins are so much harder, when aimed at the eyes of a another, And these words fly much harder, when bruised on the child of a lover.
