Like a cross tied to a telephone pole
Silently mourns the loss of the nameless.
Deceased secrets circle our heads like halos,
A scarlet letter branding the shameless.
Maybe these secrets shouldn't have been kept,
A nickel for every web you weaved
To buy a bandage for every wound you left.
Take your darkest crayon, color me deceived.
Like the stench of the pure from beneath floorboards
Bottled their beauty, vanity and pain.
Blindly lead and tangled up in these thorns
These strands of hair belong to--what's her name?
Blow out the candle, life's lost its spark
Tonight, we're picking roses in the dark.

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