The Style Is Death

Under the cold of tears

She'll decay and be warm

The style is death

A white rose in a morphine dream

A joke to amuse life

You're buying to a snowstorm

While you shake the thoughts

Memories of conversation

Oh, come turn the line

Like eager sadness

A knife hollows them out

Hollows them out

A thin skin of black letters

A thin skin of black letters

I make myself sick

Born with thoughts of disappointment

Hands out, palms dry

Give me something to grasp

False truth or fake hope

We say "yes" to death

A joke to amuse life

You're buying to a snowstorm

While you shake the thoughts

Memories of conversation

The style is death

The style is death

The style is death

The style is death