(Crows, wipe the blood off the end of your claws. Said the vulture Lets gather like storms for the war. Crows, as the night turns it's 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, you are nothing less than angels x3) Cast down and covered in black.
Ain't 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 I've already forgiven you.
And blood was running down Her dress in streams into her hands where she Was stitching on the flesh he left In sections on the carpet near a bed that Never slept while she was 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 had 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 she's 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."