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Behold the gallery of love's souvenirs
Behold the proof it wasn't just a dream
My mind is a museum of things held dear
My bones, a mausoleum for my grief
Somehow I lived a decade each passing year
A child chasing love through high esteem
No resting on my laurels, there's just die or win
Sequestered in the dark, afraid to be

So bury me
There is no poetry
In rotting away in bed
Rotting in my regrets

I wish I knew what came before these castle walls
I wish I could remember how to be
But in the winding darkness of those chasmal halls
There's not a single echo left of me

So bury me
There is no poetry
In rotting away in bed
Rotting in my regrets

Define the line
Where loathing and longing lie
Where I flinch from touch
Where I crave too much

Paralysed in crumbling foundations
Captured by ghosts of speculations
Trapped in time cadavers keep the score
Ashamed in desperation
In throes of trepidation
A flight of preservation
A blight upon my heart
Love's souvenir

Contritus es ultra determinatio
Numquam satis erit
Mundus melius sine

Bury me
There is no poetry
In rotting away in bed
Rotting in my regrets

Define the line
Where loathing and longing lie
Where I flinch from touch
Where I crave too much

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