We pick flowers for our loved ones
Though we kill them in the process
How disturbing it is
That something once beautiful,
Must die,
For us to show our love
We tear them from their home,
As they bloom with grace
Just to watch that love die,
Right in front of our face
They call us the dreamers,
Though we’re the ones who don’t sleep
The believers,
Though we haven’t been to church in weeks
We pick flowers for our loved ones,
Though we kill them in the process,
We watch them die in our hands,
Press them into our journals
And they soon become memories
Of a love that once was so alive,
We killed for it
