13 guns to make you realize that the bullet transpierces through you when you hold back,
13 wounds that mark the birthdate of the soldiers in your heart.
What if I told you that the pack of wolves you used to lead
have become some belligerent lunatics?
You were a Valyrian steel with a heartbeat,
a Northern light with a pulse.
Perhaps you were just in dire straits
when the racing bullets took you away under the hands of the ******.
13 fuzz pedals to take you home to your world of riffs and ****,
13 distortions to shield you from the noises you don't wanna hear.
Inclement dead hearts won't resurrect if they
still can't possess the
authoritative prowess to be an indestructible master of war.
13 bullets that you swallowed but you felt nothing
because 13 scythes of the lords of doom did no fear to you.
Your wolves have been wondering every single day since then;
how could you ever end that song?
And your vultures no longer could hear you sing
so they stopped spreading their wings.
Guns. Razors. Knives. Rocket Skates by Deftones.
That's a decent tune but I suppose those three gears are for battles
not for you to dismantle yourself.
13 razor blades that kept you away from consciousness,
and 13 IV tubes that left lost souls crying on your hospital bed.
At that time I realized
you were not just in dire straits
or your 6's and 7's.
The bullets that you swallowed then thrived into your heart in revolt
and it became a cancer.
I should have known.
Deftones girl, are you alright?
(You obviously are not.)
I'll play the song Rocket Skates again beside your deathbed
so that you'll wake up one day
and we would sing marches of heresy.
13 soldiers who continued the legacy of your unfinished song,
13 vultures that fly up high to your transcendental realm,
and 13 last songs from me to you.