(Crows, wipe the blood from the end of your claws. said the vulture, Lets gather like storms for the war.
Crows, as the night turns its skin into coal, Dark as corpses but cluttered with gold. They will label you thieves, wolves, and whores but you are nothing less than angels, cast down and covered in black.)
Aint this the bloodiest mess in the world? said the virgin, a torn little girl.
Boy, you went and made a sweet wreck of my soul, and Ive already forgiven you.
And blood was running down
Her dress in streams into her hands where she
Was stitching on the flesh he'd left
In sections on the carpet near a bed that
Never slept while you were sleeping
In her clothes that he had laid with on
The floor with all his fingers crossed
In hoping that that distance
Wouldn't grow.
But how it grew,
And how it hurt,
And how it hallowed every memory he'd
Never felt was threatened by a thing the world
Could conjure up to kill them, but he let it kill them
What a bunch of fools we lovers are.
And now shes smiling, with her self put back together, just a shadow of the past before the war.
All sewn together, like a city sick from storms and sick of waiting for a god to call the floods out of her home.
what a bunch of fools we lovers are
when tempted by the taste of flesh.
"my boy, you are nothing more than a thief and a whore in a suit of the finest of armor." laughed the vulture.
"pathetic little child, i am embarrassed for you."
