Bernadette Protti

Beneath the lone quaint pine tree
Lays the fair Bernadette

-with eyes filled with sorrow & regret-

With floral in her hair, she serenades
With tales of poignant tragedy

These memories of my wounds at hand they won't pass away

IVE DIED WITHIN YOUR WORDS

(your words, they hurt, I caná¢t disregard this pain)

A thousand conversations as time moves on
Ill thrust this blade as long as pain is found

THERE'S NOTHING LEFT