Untitled as of now.

Spoken from pens and lips both moving,
Precious vodka stains across the surface
Ink ran out.. hating.. loathing
And we’ll write in blood tonight
Red water ran from feather quills, what bird was sacrificed?
Who lost their lives in this torment?
From the stars, we hang tonight without ink or blood
And we’ll lay there till our souls let go
Or until the rope lets go,
Either way, we’ll end up alone.
And if we fall tonight,
Will we be lost in fright,
And will you heal my broken scars, dark angel?
Or will you cause them, my dark devil?
Is it not enough to melt from tears?
But when could water be turned to ice?
When would you hear me cry?
Or would clear be turned to red once again?
So I ask you for tragic lullabies,
Written in words unspoken and unread,
And we know that forever misses its rhyme.