I'm counting down to madness,
I'm counting down to being still,
I'm collecting drops of sadness;
they crawl within
and make me ill.

I'm living on a prayer,
having never known God,
I'm reaching out for heaven,
when burning fire's all I've had.

So I caress my pitch black wings,
patiently gazing at the sky,
while being poked with sticks and twigs
attached to hands of people
that think demons shall never fly.