deliciously ruined
poor little human
crying her eyes out in hurt
remnant from great things
image of great kings
kicked up by wind like the dirt
they say who you are is deep down within
but i’m right here, can’t you see
it’s disgusting
one can’t devise the nature of light
without all the ugly to shape and define
so please don’t blame me if my soul’s
a bit dusty
moonbeams are just dead skin glowing
who we are 's just dead skin going
on and on and on again
to a place where the night-lights never end
moonbeams are just dead skin gleaming
who we are 's just dead skin screaming
over and over and over again
why won't the night-lights ever end?
it's funny how the things that are odd
creepy and macabre
are the things we dare call the face of God
if we end up gone
for once just be wrong
seek beauty in horror you stumble upon
write them in poems
a lyric of song
and throw off the angels by singing along
moonbeams are just dead skin glowing
who we are 's just dead skin going
on and on and on again
to a place where the night-lights never end
moonbeams are just dead skin gleaming
who we are 's just dead skin screaming
over and over and over again
why won't the night-lights ever end?
it's funny how the things that are odd
creepy and macabre
are the things we dare call the face of God
and when all is said
everyone is dead
so why won’t they call me a moonbeam instead?
if i’m a moonbeam
and you’re a moonbeam
why can’t a moonbeam be the face of God?
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 10:05 PM UTC
deliciously ruined
poor little human
crying her eyes out in hurt
remnant from great things
image of great kings
kicked up by wind like the dirt
they say who you are is deep down within
but i’m right here, can’t you see
it’s disgusting
one can’t devise the nature of light
without all the ugly to shape and define
so please don’t blame me if my soul’s
a bit dusty
moonbeams are just dead skin glowing
who we are 's just dead skin going
on and on and on again
to a place where the night-lights never end
moonbeams are just dead skin gleaming
who we are 's just dead skin screaming
over and over and over again
why won't the night-lights ever end?
it's funny how the things that are odd
creepy and macabre
are the things we dare call the face of God
if we end up gone
for once just be wrong
seek beauty in horror you stumble upon
write them in poems
a lyric of song
and throw off the angels by singing along
moonbeams are just dead skin glowing
who we are 's just dead skin going
on and on and on again
to a place where the night-lights never end
moonbeams are just dead skin gleaming
who we are 's just dead skin screaming
over and over and over again
why won't the night-lights ever end?
it's funny how the things that are odd
creepy and macabre
are the things we dare call the face of God
and when all is said
everyone is dead
so why won’t they call me a moonbeam instead?
if i’m a moonbeam
and you’re a moonbeam
why can’t a moonbeam be the face of God?
Professor Moriarty: Did you know that dust is largely composed of human skin?
Sherlock Holmes: Yes…
Moriarty: Doesn’t taste the same, though. You want your skin fresh–just a little crispy.
Sherlock: Won’t you sit down-
Moriarty: That’s all people really are, you know? Dust waiting to be distributed. And it gets everywhere, doesn’t it? Every breath you take Dancing in every sunbeam. All used-up people
-”The Abominable Bride” (”Sherlock”)
