What was created is cremated.
Date: Feb 15th, 2007 7:08:54 pm - Subscribe
Mood: volatile
I Close my eyes and open my arms to a killer,
My Dahlia, my prying Pandora.
She wants to find this before it kills her,
With her porcelain face now fractured
like a sad, beautiful winter.
Completely manufactured.
Feeding me secret answers when
all along the rapture told otherwise.
A manifesto of lies.
Her hope, befit of a disaster .
Tell me if you take stabs at passion,
or find it easy to forget that
the heavens burn like branches?
Enthuse me.
While I go through the motions of caring;
note kindness in her is like the failure of a killer.
Only accidental.
So, please,
spare me final dramas,
and your passions, and your traumas.
There's nothing here to save.
And although you're breathing in your grave,
it's still unmistakable.
You have been crowned.
And now, the death befit of a queen.
I may be crawling through knives,
but you can't hide what's happened all along.
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