When the clock strikes twelve
On this dead November night,
The skeletal leaves falling one by one
Rest themselves to sleep on this frozen autumn's grave.
Withered like a memory, festering six feet under.
Isn't this what you wanted?
She lights her last cigarette, to 'comfort her great loss'.
Smoke intoxicates her lungs
Like the arsenic in their wine.
While unsuspecting strangers pay their last respects
As the flowers sing their last dying song
To conceal the knife wounds in my back.
And the gunshot in my forehead.
And the bloodstains on my sheets.
Angels cry out my name
And paint a morbid smile upon my face.
Porcelain doll faces all smashed upon the pavement,
Their echoes left unheard
Through the hallways and wrinkles in my brain.
A sea of faded hands which have all once
Tasted the sweet glow of light
Fight and contort themselves as to taste it one last time.
The sun, tinged with the pain of blood
Now drips freely from the sky and
Curses the earth with each undying drop.
Scribbled messages crumpled up and unread
Now bloom and reveal their secrets,
As the words float freely on the wind.
And it all amounts to nothing.
The final page still turns,
And the moral still forgotten...
What will be remembered?
The apolcalypse of the mind.