On some clear night Their tale gets retold Silent sobs fill the air Thick with grief and memory As he kneels by the body of a Dancer
With a gear-made heart And glassed copper eyes The ghost of her maker lingers here And her other half A few feet away All in their presence hear the whispers Of monachopsis
A prince covered in life Tendrils of Ivy Spring from his ankles Slashes of moss Dapple his shoulders While twisting trees Paint his back
His sobs fill the air Thick with grief and memory As he kneels by the body of a Dancer
His lover’s soul split Two halves Two dancers Melomania led the charge In his demise A kiss sealed his prison
One heart made of gears Another smashed on the ground Two eyes made of copper Another pair on the floor Chimes in the distance One dancer goes on Unable to stop There’s no mourning the other
A prince covered in death Still tendrils of Ivy Spring from his ankles And slashes of moss Dapple his shoulders While twisting trees Paint his back
A lover nearby Corpses of dancers Lay down beside Chimes in the distance Ring without greif His soul spilt A prince now alone
It is late, and the beer drips down my throat goes to my head meets the silence tomorrow is too hard to think about but tonight my youth dances with the alcohol they aren't good dancers but no one is watching and tomorrow is late
So the nature the dirt of the past is crushed under the wave of the future old relics of freedom stuck in the sands of time and an army rises from the ashes of coffee and newspaper stories heroes and nightmares metallic eyes arms tied to strings pulled by those forever gluttons in power since the beginning however silent they pull on their little dancers and we forget our saviors in this ocean this new sea of indifference.
I am the sea. I am the clouds. And the dirt you carry within your dreams. i am the pain. i taste the blood. Even though it’s 2 o’clock in the mourning and time to go home. To the nothings and the peculiars of an emptiest life. i am the child who once painted lipstick on a pet / the grimmest hour I stood alone / i wanted to die / and now i’ve grown up without the hope of a warmer house I could call my life || i am the tea. i am the cup. Of no particular taste and i want to throw up / and it’s always the last one who calls me hon / you should get a better life. |||
