My hands are cold,
they have no blood to hold.
The room is dark,
but I can hear her laugh.
My eyes, they fear
what my ears think they hear.
My head, it spins
and then my love begins.
No fun,
no games,
Just this old ball and chain.
She thinks I lack,
The will to cut some slack.
Too young, too old
to tell what I've been told.
My hands, they're cold
they need some blood to hold.
My love is back,
in the ground, in black.
I stool, she knows,
just not how deep it goes.
White guilt inspect,
all lacking intellect.
I talk regrets, the dying architect.
Old man, unsaid
dying alone in bed.
The steeps of life,
are climbed best with a knife.
Still young, still old,
can't tell what I've been told.
Put my hands, ears too cold.
Soon they'll need some blood to hold.
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