Cut me open, bleed me dry 

A knife not a tool, a liberator

There is the forgiving woman with sorrow

Deep in those eyes, to a place 

I am oh so unfamiliar with

 

There are places you know, you see

It is the dark holding our sparks 

A flock of deft touches and harmony

Yet the pulse of the thunder rolls over

Sparks scattered, hidden or gone 

 

You will never, never enter

Never enter my pain, my storm

But I know it’s too late for such

In the eye of the storm you saw

A blue opal boy so fragile

 

He a scattered spark found

Desires to feel your trace

Who’s trace but her’s, only her’s

Paralysis of fear strikes from the blue

But my opal boy only wants the flowers of grace 

 

So shall the blue opal boy bleed dry?