In the Streets of Shame
Tattooed Reminisce
The man who channels stand alone.
He gives his friends for sacrifice.
Two roads before him, one to death beyond dying, the other to life eternal.
They say that the people you care about leave a handprint on your heart.
But no, not you.
You, your whole vain self, has been imprinted on me, in me, irrovocably. Your portrait etched deep in the lining tissues of my heart, your strangely beautiful features running icily through my veins. The same heart that wrenches in pain at the sound of your name, and yet that is all it knows.
Which will he choose? Which will he choose?
What hand shelters? What hand slags?
It throbs now, rather than beats, but still, your memory is flows through my corpse-like body. It unmistakeably cries your name in it's short, ragged gasps of longing.
Throb, throb, throb. Gee, Gee, Gee.
It is with this tattooed reminisce and a great amount of Shame that I part my skin, the faintly blue veins and arteries that carry your very image, the silver-chrome razorblade glinting just like your wildly intoxicated eyes.
And I laugh without humor because it's so ironic:
Although I see your reflection in this crimson disaster, our blood is nothing alike. For yours was nothing but deep red wine, while mine is as pure as your will to live.
Blood feeds blood.
Blood calls blood.
Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.
He gives his friends for sacrifice.
Two roads before him, one to death beyond dying, the other to life eternal.
They say that the people you care about leave a handprint on your heart.
But no, not you.
You, your whole vain self, has been imprinted on me, in me, irrovocably. Your portrait etched deep in the lining tissues of my heart, your strangely beautiful features running icily through my veins. The same heart that wrenches in pain at the sound of your name, and yet that is all it knows.
Which will he choose? Which will he choose?
What hand shelters? What hand slags?
It throbs now, rather than beats, but still, your memory is flows through my corpse-like body. It unmistakeably cries your name in it's short, ragged gasps of longing.
Throb, throb, throb. Gee, Gee, Gee.
It is with this tattooed reminisce and a great amount of Shame that I part my skin, the faintly blue veins and arteries that carry your very image, the silver-chrome razorblade glinting just like your wildly intoxicated eyes.
And I laugh without humor because it's so ironic:
Although I see your reflection in this crimson disaster, our blood is nothing alike. For yours was nothing but deep red wine, while mine is as pure as your will to live.
Blood feeds blood.
Blood calls blood.
Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.