The letter was written in blood,
the paper was made of skin.
Many words were present,
but only one word was remembered.

Her body was torn,
the pieces were scattered.
Her blue eyes were empty
and her soul had been lost.

Her skin was the letter,
her blood was the ink.
The words were a warning,
and we were the warned.

Something was coming
and we had to run.
We took her advice
and we ran from the world.

We made a mistake --
we shouldn't have run!
We only see black
and we only hear death.

We are the letters,
our blood is the ink.
We warn of what's coming,
of what can't be outrun.