you are an unholy sort of beautiful a rejection of divinity in every freckle and curve in the dirt under your nails and the blood in your smile your crooked nose and clever fingers screaming that you are godless
you dress yourself in an artless kind of humanity and revel in the shock it brings hair and skin and dirt and all the warmth you can gather between two hands you cup your heart in scarred palms like the very opposite of a benediction
you wear debauchery like a second skin darling, you could **** god with a grin
One said a sentence: "You won't get her heart back." Knowing its truth made me Godless and wretched. I can't see behind or front In my scattered life. Help me, help me, help me! Help me please Souleater. What would I do When things getting vicious? Is giving up a choose? Help me, help me, help me! Help me please Souleater. I never start and finish I just watch dreamer.
She stood on my porch, the lady in gold She stood there until I dared to open the door She needed inside, but for what?
My lady in gold, she called towards me, but only pain could follow My lady in gold, murmuring to herself, questioning her own philosophy My lady in gold, wondering if I even cared enough about her to save her
And I, the heartless coward And I, the spiritless shell of a man And I, the miserable being killing the lady in gold
She held herself on a pedestal for the world to see And when I doubted her, she fell from her self assumed grace My lady in gold, now covered in soot from the earth below
In rows they cry out to their supposed saviors in one last effort to believe. A choir of godless men howling toward the heavens, hoping to be heard.
The field upon which they cry has a foul stench to it. An all too familiar smell of blood, sweat and ignorance. In the distance a soldier crawls to find his foot and hugs it as if reunited with an old friend. Something resembling hope floats through the air, only to fly away and leave the poor soldier stranded in his solitude.
The real horror is what’s happening inside the minds of these petty little boys whom now realize they’ve been played. Inside their skulls they are experiencing the very last realization to hit a dying man before his downfall. The one that no living being has yet to escape from. Knowing that the clock has run its course and there is nothing behind the closed curtain. Nothing for the man who cannot convince himself that there is someone behind all this pain. Nothing for the poor soul who was never told there is an option. Nothing for us who want to believe but cannot.