where desolate thoughts would creep a certain resonance
into his words like they mean something
and could eventually fix a broken wing
torn to pieces, ripped apart
a last dance with death in the dark
as the sweetest illusion of a friend
would haunt him to the bitter end
trashed in a corner tired of the waiting
the neverending searching for a slight meaning
something that's worth hanging on to
a lil bit more till the dusk of an other day comes through
then he'd be safe again
from others' lips curled in disdain
from the useless expectations
of decay and degradation
torn to pieces, ripped apart
a last dance with death in the dark
as the sweetest illusion of a friend
would haunt him to the bitter end
there's this place covered in dried blood
full of dead dreams and lonesome thuds
of a deserted, abandoned heart
and the wish to make them stop, make them stop