i dance on the power lines
of electricity
composed from inner-friction.

you called me an angel
though my wings have been
incinerated.
all that remains are the sickly,
twisted wire frames.

yet you say i'm beautiful,
as the dark thoughts run down my face.
like crimson butterflies being pinned down,
onto the disgrace of a grey cardboard frame.
the real world isn't for me,
since my heart is too feeble
to support my forever racing thoughts.

hold me down and prepare to die.
i'm tired of everyone's intertwining lies.
like twisted vines laced with blood-red thorns,
in dense forests of horrific beauty.
bleeding you dry as you attempt to pass through.

as the purest red rose,
of infinite scents that scream love,
will be picked.
and prick the tender fingers of fair maidens..
it shall.

slowly it will wither,
blackening with the coming toll of
death's bells.