| Faint traces barely detected | |
| Last weapon used | |
| Soul puncture wounds | |
| Not self inflicted | |
| And with the night she reaches into herself | |
| To show you here blackened turnip heart | |
| Cold blooming skin | |
| Tampered, perched carefully off balance | |
| Waiting on the edge of unexistance | |
| And still the nightmares come | |
| Silent in her cruel juggernaut head bowed a willows hang | |
| And still the nightmares come | |
| Yearning for unexistance | |
| Doesn't know the shine of the sun | |
| Only the growing piy in her chest | |
| Just enougth feeling left | |
| To miss her |
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