Black Roses.
People with tears.
People in black.
A preacher at the pulpit.
A little boy who doesnt understand.
A look of guilt, on your face.
Past lies.
Past Scars.
Past Fears.
You left her.
You caused the black roses on the grave,
the crying people, the preacher speaking.
You caused the little boy to wonder
"where is my sister?"
The look of guilt on your face says it all.
You lied.
You cheated.
She cut.
She feared.
And yet, you dared show up here.
Not a tear staining your cheek.
Holding the hand of a blonde,
Who doesnt care.
