The Style Is Death

Under the cold of tears she'll decay and be warm.
The style is death. A white rose in a morphine dream.
A joke to amuse life. Goodbye into a snowstorm.
While you shake the thoughts, memories of conversation.

Come back the line like eager sadness.
A knife hollows them out. Hollows them out.
A thin skin of black letters. A thin skin of black letters.

I make myself sick. Born with thoughts of disappointment.
Hands out, palms dry. Give me something to grasp.
False truth or fake hope. We say yes to death