...a bloody tournament of hollow hearts...

"Wingless Angel"




The clouds intimidate the blood that boils within her.
The blood that boils from stolen gifts; missing.

From the highest rock she surrenders her voice,
Parts her trembling lips like she has for lies.

The echo feeds the air for its hungry silence
Screaming, leaning off the highest rock, she waits.

The warmth of his body, she can sink her teeth into.
The windows to her demons close, to smile again.

Death awaits her, yet she can taste life behind her like a thousand kisses.
To pull her from the ledge is like medication for his soul, his sickness.

Her screams still echo in his ears, deafening his immortality,
Escaping from her mortal mind into the forest of fabrication.

He is gone.  Gone again.  The rocks, the rocks.
The ocean beneath her, what 'tis its destiny?

Scarred arms violently play mercy with the ledge -
A brawl with nature in a bloody tournament of hollow hearts.

Distinct stones become distinct because of the blood that consumes them.
She drains herself white until he shall come again, if possible.

This sea of selfishness masquerades as a sea of sacrifice,
however, tinting the ocean below her with the color of passion.

It is getting cold inside of her already icy skin, no cries,
The warmth of his body, she can sink her teeth into, no lies.

His hands brings the same gift as a bandaid, yet again, here.
Behind her, he cries softly in a muffled terror that taunts.

The bleeding never seizes, but her pain becomes her pleasure
The warmth he can bring seems to fade from her frozen facade.

His tears that created the ocean is tainted by her pleasure now
The gems that built the tower are only bloody rocks on a ledge.

He turns, he runs, wiping blood from his thumbs
A warm heart transforms into an icebox from the unstoppable.

Here she lay, all alone without bandaid or warmth
In a panic, a frenzy, if you will, she searches for a source.

The rocks are jaded and the ocean is her blood bath...
If you looked at it from her angle, 'tis quite romantic.

How to bring back his gifts is the question to a beautiful answer -
The ledge and the ocean and the body that has yet to lie below it.

There she goes; wind beating her chest, windows to her demons closed,
Here he comes, standing at the ledge, ready with gifts of patience.

Watching her fall, impossible for the gift of giving now
She hits rock bottom.  This is the only gift the wingless Angel has not.

"Goodbye, Violetta."