to Marcy Howard
A winged creature rises tall.
Cloaked in brimstone and fire,
Hearts and minds know he will not fall,
As he lives with our desires,
The blackened flesh not flesh at all,
No face as we require,
We hear the darkness and its call,
With our dreams our funeral pyre.
And as we hang our heads to cry,
Our tears flow crimson red,
The fluid not from our eyes,
But from our hearts instead,
Holding dark demented sighs,
Echoes from inside our heads,
Wrapped in skeletons alibis,
With a soul that now seems dead.
We walk the path that leads through hell,
Through the land of broken dreams,
As the pain we hold so well,
Becomes more than it seems,
While the skeletons we wont sell,
Enjoy our endless screams,
And to ourselves, the lie we tell,
Is we finally have our dreams.
The creature stands with outstretched hands,
While inside no soul exists,
Yet we hold our hearts demands,
Creating hell as we resist,
A dream began and can not die,
And in this hell the dream persists,
As the mirror reveals the foe,
Its ourselves, we must admit.