How fitting he took the name of a blade. Through a life of cloak and dagger, he spends his days fleeing the light, fighting the night inside. What better to cut with? How fitting to find him gone when I turn around; leaving only the pain of his name.
The name of a blade.
I made it to the moon today, just to hang from your string. I wanted to be changed, I wanted to love you. But that’s a sad song. It’s untrue. I wanted to bleed something new; I wanted to hide inside of you. This tumble weed town ain’t worth a thing it hasn’t seen. And I don’t know, maybe you’ve never been. Maybe you’ve never heard that one before. I’m sorry; I’d be your wooden dancer. I’d be your Mshykin. I’d be Mary Shelly’s Thing and Winston Smith all wrapped in one. Just please tell me it would make me love you.
Show me a calling, make me blind; because I’m done either way, but with this maybe…..maybe I wouldn’t’ be so sad sad sad. Maybe I’d learn to know you. I could change. ‘Be the very thing I am so sad for too. I could start a whole new life, without you; but I know I’d be lying. “Heart ache” and die, like Brian Jones did. I dreamed of tears in a pool, that you could find me in too. God’s maintenance man could take me, and you’d know everything would be like new. Spring rains would come and wash even my muddy bank. They would cover the bones and blisters under a prairie river. Then my body tricked me and it took a breath.
After what seemed like ten thousand years the ground finally shook. I feared Hell had come to meet me. I cried and screamed and I cursed; I yelled profanities and lies into the skies until blood fell like tears from my lungs. I said no, no it couldn’t be, there was no one there, but I was a fool, I didn’t even know myself.
Then with no objections or lamentations, above me gathered phantoms and spectre’s; above my grave. I knew I had been put there by no-lovers kiss, and the cut of a knave.
