(no subject)
Of celluloid dreams, and make-shift wings of paper,
going down in flames, charred, blackened, and desolate.
This summer I painted a scene that lit the stars.
They’re denied by you now.
You hang like a cruel portrait
soft winds whisper the bidding of trees.
Sin deep my wicked angel, sin deep
it’s saddening.
You’ve been dazed and confused for so long its not true.
The bloody lord abortion has been torn from thine heart.
Waiting for the telephone to ring, and I’m wondering
where he’s been. And I’m crying.
For Yesterday.
When you get there will you kiss the dead for me?
going down in flames, charred, blackened, and desolate.
This summer I painted a scene that lit the stars.
They’re denied by you now.
You hang like a cruel portrait
soft winds whisper the bidding of trees.
Sin deep my wicked angel, sin deep
it’s saddening.
You’ve been dazed and confused for so long its not true.
The bloody lord abortion has been torn from thine heart.
Waiting for the telephone to ring, and I’m wondering
where he’s been. And I’m crying.
For Yesterday.
When you get there will you kiss the dead for me?