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Death's acceptance,
pain's allegiance, all in the name of...

Blind tears are accidents.

Truth? I couldn't be farther from,
a false prophet, I have become.
A perfect flight could have been mine
if not for clipped feathers,
because of which we collide.
Did my imperfection serve us both well?

Wounded, I speak,
it was special at first, then blinding at last.
Warm yet lonely eventually.

Religionless. Blood ran in such veins,
for many years, where numbness had once rested,
where slept such love it turned me bloodless.
To accept death is not to become defeated.

Placebo, every bit temporary,
apothecary every bit permanent.
Blessed be the damned,
blessed sun and winter grow old and dreary.

When air stagnate, and
thoughts deceive. Seasons change
and holy water become bitter,
grief take over days and tears roll down here
on the face of innocence
where love once was lurking:
May forests grow tall,
pass even the skies.
And pierced by the red mountains
a red heaven cries,
death's acceptance would be avenged.

These are no ordinary ashes.
These are the burning away of life
within this pyre.
Beyond this burning nothing lies
in peace, only madness.
This is the end.