Stone feels cold,
Beneath my flesh,
Naked, sprawled,
Waterfalls, blood,
A plague of leather decends,
A murder of crows.
Proud black wings,
Soar overhead,
As a gentle black feather,
Lands on my cheek,
My ears can almost,
Hear the minds shatter,
Like shards of glass-- like,
My poor glass wings,
We knew this was to be,
Since the epitah we sang,
As our first cries.
We're nothing special,
Just ghosts of tomorrow,
Laughing through the,
Red, red tears,
And trying to remember,
How to fly,
With wings of glass.