We crumble like eroded mountains,
Crashing into the stormy sea,
Our hearts bleeding on the battlefield,
Fighting to be free.
Underneath our tarnished suits of armor,
The ghosts of our pasts dwell,
Remembering our bliss heaven,
Before we turned it into hell.
Mournful now is the morning,
Nostalgic is the silent night,
We used to burn such a bright candle,
Yet the flame forlornly flickered out of sight.
Even as the day draws to a close,
Neither of us finds a resolution,
Our hands are cold and bodies still,
But war is wary of absolution.
Each of us lay with closed eyes,
Denying what we had done;
We had fought a devastating battle,
Just to realize that it had not been won.
Alas, it is too late in the evening,
To relinquish our irreparable fates,
For even if we had a fleeting chance,
Neither of us intended to amend our straits.