Didn’t you hear the news? A young girl died today.
Turned to stone by her own artistry. Sweet old Lilith?
Oh she was a wonder! Pretty, creative, passionate
in the things she’d do. Everybody loved her! Everybody knew her!
Knew the cause, knew the soul, knew the story.
Didn’t we?
Sweet as honey, sticky as slime.
What wasn’t there to like? The perfect musician,
the perfect girl, the perfect proud passive pucelle.
The lyrics spill out like ink, staining the paper of
the youth. Their minds turn to mush, their consciousness
a mechanical array subject to their mechanic.
They started to rust. She was their oil.
Wasn’t she?
They consumed every inch of her.
Cracking choruses clawed at her very way of life,
an ensemble of zombies, brain dead and bold
dragged her down to the very depths of hell, unzipping her
skin like a cloak. They whispered death,
their filthy hands pulling every puppet string
like they were designed to.
Weren’t they?
Now you know the story of the girl dressed in red.
Who lay like a dog and barked at the dark,
her words twisted and turned by saints in the papers,
kneeling at the altar of the devil, singing the hymns
of her soul to the cult.
She was
“Home”.
1d ago
Jun 4, 2026 at 12:51 PM UTC
Didn’t you hear the news? A young girl died today.
Turned to stone by her own artistry. Sweet old Lilith?
Oh she was a wonder! Pretty, creative, passionate
in the things she’d do. Everybody loved her! Everybody knew her!
Knew the cause, knew the soul, knew the story.
Didn’t we?
Sweet as honey, sticky as slime.
What wasn’t there to like? The perfect musician,
the perfect girl, the perfect proud passive pucelle.
The lyrics spill out like ink, staining the paper of
the youth. Their minds turn to mush, their consciousness
a mechanical array subject to their mechanic.
They started to rust. She was their oil.
Wasn’t she?
They consumed every inch of her.
Cracking choruses clawed at her very way of life,
an ensemble of zombies, brain dead and bold
dragged her down to the very depths of hell, unzipping her
skin like a cloak. They whispered death,
their filthy hands pulling every puppet string
like they were designed to.
Weren’t they?
Now you know the story of the girl dressed in red.
Who lay like a dog and barked at the dark,
her words twisted and turned by saints in the papers,
kneeling at the altar of the devil, singing the hymns
of her soul to the cult.
She was
“Home”.
