Poetic Graveyard

Apocalypse
Tattooed on your eyelids
Strumming the last of the strings
I miss the air
On my face
I would
Pay to feel it again

Oh bury me
With the stories
Between the pages
The pages

Press the dirt back where it belongs
Don't think about how it felt to love
So blindly so wildly
And destroyed till I turned empty
Don't think about how it felt
To hurt

Oh bury me
With the stories
Between the pages
The pages