They crashed, at last, the scores will tie;
Well past the doors of silken lies.
From trash to chords with silver lines.
She’d finally see what happens on forgotten shores.
Abandoned ships, the ghostly kind,
"but in fact," she's told, "were still in time
for sweetest notes, for rose and wine." -
We can’t or simply haven’t, of that she can be sure.
Lonely nights with cheeks so teary,
another night, she weeps so weary
"A struggled life" she keeps on hearing.
A painful fright: she’d rather sit and cry her nevermore.
She stands on shattered hour glass.
These sands of time would barley last.
The beach has dried - a weary past.
She has to sit and cry her nevermore
For every charm may weep like bells,
sound red alarms or scream like hell.
“He gave his heart and gave it well...”
-he can’t or simply hasn’t- of that she can be sure.
The bells will sing and scream and cry,
promise anything you can see with eyes,
but take care to not believe these lies;
for the night, you'd rather sit and cry your nevermore.
The blood is dry, and blown away.
The sands, in sky, have choked the day.
We danced, we cried, forever prayed:
We’d wait and see what happens on forgotten shores
The sickness gone, but will it last?
Like creeping dawn, or wilted mask...
Such Illicit wrongs with vicious grasp.
For the night, just sit and cry your nevermore