Gypsy Angel (Poor Libra)

The thorns left on the dying roses,
I never gave to you,
still cut my fingers, and exposes,
the blood I bleed for you.

The dead mans' gods, still scream your name,
forcing to take note.
I hate what I am, what I have became,
wearing death's dark coat.

I have seen the graves, of people we will kill,
and have tried to count their bodies.
I reminisce of those who lie still,
and become entangle in their oddities.