The hearers and sayers are moving the truth around again.
Why are they always coming up with different reasons to die?
Especially when it is the world's hands at play;
Her gracious hands, wrapped in cellophane then thrown from the window with hate.
Oh and how we have shattered those precious porcelain fingernails.
All of that money gone to waste, burnt out on family funerals and stock exchange.
You should have spent more time outside in the shade,
Rather than lick the sweet taste of revenge off her switch blade.
To just spit back in the face of a once upon a time love.
It's the wanderers from the beginning that always come back for more.
Heaven has a special place reserved in hell for them.
It's only a matter of time before I'm trapped in between the two again.
So I'm back on the floor, with my face in the eye.
I have bitten off the last shadow.
They should be able to see the light soon enough:
But I let it slip again, out into the *nighttime stardust.
I'm still not sure of this one. I have been in a writer's block as of late and this was my attempt at breaking it. ("tear down the wall, tear down the wall, tear down the wall. . .") You get the picture.
Love, A.