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With Dead Hands Rising
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Bleeding Away the Hours
This is the last time I will write this lousy letter to me and myself.
I'm dying with devotion.
These thoughts reflect the most of wretched and decrepit times I know.
I will make it somehow.
With or without you to be blamed.
For innocence that cannot be reclaimed.
I will build a fortress.
Seal up my heart from the inside.
Where no one can try to put it back together piece by piece.
No time for comfort.
No more scapegoats or vexation.
With or without you to be the culprit for this tragedy.
I'll count the hours until I spill my insides from the deepened wound.
This confession has meant nothing to the ones I know.
Nothing to the one's who have promised. I am dying with devotion.
In the midst of my disaster.
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I am dying with devotion in the midst of myself deprivation.
That which makes me stronger.
These veins run deep.
Brining me downward where angels reside.
With or without you to be blamed.
This confession has meant nothing to you.
That day I was more like.
An apparition with no place to hide.
Consuming every last shred of evidence.
As to where I left my bleeding heart.
With a lucid thought of arterial sympathy.
I am left to be silent.
I am left to become my own.
Bleeding away the hours.
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