Skin deep in her cold green sea,
a dark and gnarled sky above.
On the horizon a sign reads:
She believes in angels, but she can't believe in love.

Insane in her reverie, wings sewn cross stitch
all down the spine of her back,
rattling panes that the winds blow
are just a reminder of all that she lack.

Saw teeth across metal, this is music to her ear,
the shriek of a tea kettle brings insolent childhood fear.
Rude eyes shout; forget the devil, he has no bite.
She knows better though, she won't go down without a fight.

Her attempts to to speak of the things she has heard
are the sounds of the cat who has sprung on the bird.
To spread her wings is to spread her legs
and embrace to power the darkness has made.

Oh, the suffering of heart ache after heart's ache,
while pulling the wings off of flies.
She can make you laugh, she's pretty smart hey,
but it isn't the same as being wise.

Every bit of her life, it occurs to her.
Yes it does, it just occurs.
Now is that being selfish or just being blind,
if fooling people well is her way to unwind.


end


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