I
know a garden wherein bloom
Red
roses which will die too soon
from
ungloved hands which long to touch
the
flowers which she loved so much
And
I suppose, that somewhere dwells
A
man who walks the paths of hell
with
great and unforgiving blade,
a
monster of his soul hath made
Yet
into quiet moments seep
for
each, sweet memories they keep.
By
keeping, know it's all that's left
beyond
the chasm known as death
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