charred guns and bones
burning upon the ground
in the deep of the woods
nothing but silence all around
no screams or whispers
dead people can't talk
the hunters have fled
angels had gone on a walk
men have been killing men
from the dawn of their birth
and they will **** them all
so us all can rest in dirt
even the one's with hearts
them mothers and children
everywhere there is a wall
and there's no place left to run
and in the noise of those guns
erasing yet another name again
all but the lords and their sons
everyone will bathe in this rain
do we know who we are
or that what we have become
monsters eating monsters
and we cheer for the one
those guns don't bleed
they melt by the rotting flesh
In all the poison we keep
we only ever bite ourselves
and fall asleep to never wake
in lullabies of screaming men
screeching metal tearing half
but no one listens to them
some are put to rest by guns
sometimes by an unmarked stone
someone's head is on a pike
somewhere midst of charred bones
men dying for other men
falling asleep for the dream
not a tear to wave good-bye
for being the angels
that they have been
only a slaute of the guns
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
charred guns and bones
burning upon the ground
in the deep of the woods
nothing but silence all around
no screams or whispers
dead people can't talk
the hunters have fled
angels had gone on a walk
men have been killing men
from the dawn of their birth
and they will **** them all
so us all can rest in dirt
even the one's with hearts
them mothers and children
everywhere there is a wall
and there's no place left to run
and in the noise of those guns
erasing yet another name again
all but the lords and their sons
everyone will bathe in this rain
do we know who we are
or that what we have become
monsters eating monsters
and we cheer for the one
those guns don't bleed
they melt by the rotting flesh
In all the poison we keep
we only ever bite ourselves
and fall asleep to never wake
in lullabies of screaming men
screeching metal tearing half
but no one listens to them
some are put to rest by guns
sometimes by an unmarked stone
someone's head is on a pike
somewhere midst of charred bones
men dying for other men
falling asleep for the dream
not a tear to wave good-bye
for being the angels
that they have been
only a slaute of the guns
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