Anastacia

Black rose of Siberia, her fingers motionless
Razor thorns and trembling leaves
Grown on vanity and love turned rogue
Sprung in may, hung by winter
Weeded out and left to rot

At the center of attention, high up in this tower
From my death bed, I sink into my desolate grave

Sprung in may, hung by winter
Weeded out and left to rot

When your heart becomes the carrier
You will be the last to know

Let heaven hear, I have become what I've stared at for so long
I've become the storm