Love and luck on the very same page
Of a worn out book I've skimmed with rage
When searching for words that my mind can't find, it's no coincidence

Ever true that love is lucky
And lovely was the increasing heart rate
When I realized that it wasn't too late
It's never too late to start over

Blood pulsing through my every vein
Undeniable that memories remain
Saturated with determination
The will to press on
Onward is this life

This profluent journey is luck
Too, it is love, though the roses may wilt
Do they grow dry from guilt?
Or simply because the spark always fades?
Regardless of both, look at what remains

Butterflies are not immortal
And sparks are not invincible
See cautiously what you still feel
(Long after the roses wilt)
If you still have love and luck
Then the lovely lust is real