My hands are cold

they have no blood to hold

The room is dark
but I can hear her laugh

My eyes, they fear
what my ears think they hear

My head, it spins
and then my love begins

No fun

no games
just this old ball and chain

She thinks I lie
the will to cut some slack

Too young, too old
to tell what I've been told

My hands, they're cold
they need some blood to hold

My love is back
in the ground, in black
I stool, she knows
just not how deep it goes
White guilt inspect
all lacking intellect

I talk regrets, the dying architect

Old man, unsaid

dying alone in bed

The steeps of life

are climbed best with a knife

Still young, still old

can't tell what I've been told

Put my hands, ears too cold

Soon they'll need some blood to hold