«Crows, wipe the blood off the end of your claws,»
Said the vulture
Let’s gather like storms for the war
Crows, as the night turns its skin into coal
Dark as corpses but cluttered with gold
They will label you thieves, wolves, and whores
But you are nothing less than angels
Cast down and covered in black
Ain’t this the bloodiest mess in the world? Said the virgin, a torn little girl
Boy, you went and made a sweet wreck of my soul, and I’ve already forgiven you
And blood, it was running down
Her dress in streams into her hands where she
Was stitching on the flesh he’d left
In sections on the carpet near a bed that
Never slept while you were sleeping
In her clothes that he had laid with on
The floor with all his fingers crossed
In hoping that that distance
Wouldn’t grow
But how it grew
And how it hurt
And how it hallowed every memory he’d
Never felt was threatened by a thing the world
Could conjure up to kill them, but he let it kill them
What a bunch of fools we lovers are
And now she’s smiling, with her self put back together
Just a shadow of the past before the war
All sewn together, like a city sick from storms
And sick of waiting for a god to call the floods out of her home
What a bunch of fools we lovers are
When tempted by the taste of flesh
«My boy, you are nothing more than a thief and a whore
In a suit of the finest of armor,» laughed the vulture
«Pathetic little child, I am embarrassed for you.»