Her words have grown sour
I miss the sweetness that helped pass these fickle hours
I miss the particular power of those three
Count them as I grieve
This thing that's left me and made it hard to breathe
Days pass away like comrades slayed on some field of battle
Yet what am I mourning in the morning
I'd rather lose myself in prattle
With these twenty-four fickle friends
That die only to be born again
It happens at the stroke of midnight
Which showed a man, a coward hardly worth the fight
She says that man is me
Now she happily tortures that coward with words meant to sting
So every hour wounds
When they used to sing
Every word slices through the coward's thin defenses
Until another day dies and once again the battle commences
He wakes and he rinses
memories of what it was like to be thought of
Fondly, or so it seemed so seemingly I called it love
out of his mind
He is out of his mind to think that this could ever be
Rinsed out of his heart. Oh that moth eaten thing
How it feels devoured
Which is why I fought against the plot to cast me as the coward
And her as some vengeful god
Omniscient and therefore never wrong
So I should play along
And take this yellow streak
Even though I know I am strong
Even if you see me weak
See me as a coward
That is your belief
You never had to walk with these feet
or feel the ground vanish from underneath