Withered roses crisp underneath my feat
As I head my steps for the outside
The soles of my feet meet grey concrete
But I feel not the grinning cold
Life stays so silent
deserted battlefield
The hait is all covered in dust
As the wind gently caresses and lifts it
I am trying to die think
I am trying to fill the void
With death's every poison
And death's every spite [bad word]  [bad word]  oh [bad word] then
In the cold breeze levitates a gross of seeds
My dry eyes move slow and scattering
And meets in some distant form of slumber
The landscape and it's vast void