Did you hear? The skies are red, because the blood was not shed.

The book was not read, when the priest did not hear what she said.

So the glass was not spun, and the windowless frame did cease to be finish-ed.

Her heart was not won, so the book stayed, weighed down with the dread.

She climbed the stairs of a windowless house, open to the scorn.

Would you believe that one day she was birthed, but not born?

From every love she was neglected, every lust she was torn.

Each day was an agony, forever doomed to be forlorn.

From the bell tower she fell, so time stopped after the last chime.

Her mirthless tear, would grace the ground for the last time.

There she lay, so peaceful, so utterly supine (one could say she slept).

Where she fell, there grew a flower, one could only describe as sublime.

All who rounded, those who crowded, could not help, so they wept.

From this grave, there came no salve, so salvation was lost to her.

From the red skies she watched, slowly, the world would deter (from preservation).

The skies are red, because her words were like the mouth of every meager nation (neglected).
The skies are red, because she lost the way.
The skies are red, because she lost her way.
The skies are red, because there is no way.

No way in hell that there will be a brighter day.
So stay and finish what hath begun.
Spin the record the way it was supposed to be spun.
Bury the smoking gun and plant a tree for the sun.

Breathe life into a peaceful world that has not yet begun.