Demons of angels, with wings to spread to fly away from everything and death.
With both I want.

Demons of praise, with friends with out end.
Something I need.

Demons of grace, such balance and agreement.
Something I pray for.

My word is my grave, my love, my saving prayer.
No one notices how important my words are.

Still me, my words and I.

But if I were to say "hurt is another word for love." I cant help but think its wrong.

And I still lay my twisted mind on a stone white table...