Keep the Faith

Pray.

Deep within their temples,
They sit, they mumble; they whisper,

They pray...

They're waiting for the cracks appearing on his tired face to disappear,
To get filled with the simplest wisps of swollen egos extracts,
The juice of theirs.
Waiting for his porcelain figure to reconstruct itself.

Is it really porcelain though?
A porcelain doll can be flawless, pretty; breakable
But never alive...


See where it all went wrong?

They prayed and sang for it not to be true,
They sang to revive his stiffening limbs.

They loved him; cut out their soft hearts into the shape of his one and only letter, to them he was worth all of their efforts, all of the losses and heat-ache.
Their prayers would rise from all mouths, from different continents in different languages all linked by the name My Chemical Romance; Gerard Way to be more exact.

Their savior, the man they wish they could save by more than measly simple words, the person they want to magic away to a land where everyone believed and loved,

Where loss is the forbidden word that binds the fate of the outcasts and the hates; the ones who lost the faith, the ones who hated.
Where the blades of truth exclude the pain to the ones who dare not to speak of it. The lairs and fakes.

Where all the lovers can pray,
To the guitar,
To the bass,
To the drums,
To the voice.
Where their chants can reach the deaf and touch the blackness grazing the back of their spewed lies.

They pray and wonder,
If they can help him, save him, fix him...
They want to weld themselves onto his existence to protect and defend this one man.
He has engulfed their minds and took over them far too many days; days they never wanted to end.
As he picked some of them up from the ditches of their despair, he helped to open some of the ripe eyes to new worlds and fresh perspectives.
His lyrics were their prayers; their music was their holy book, their shows were their churches, their mosques, their temples.

But his words...

His words were the troths they all longed to hear.
The music; the revenge, the bullets, the parade...
All of that beat the lies they've been raised on.

He's their beloved and they're his lovers,
For they will murder the angst and hate gracing their patron's face so they'd just see him smile,
At them,
For them,
From the above or the beyond.

They just want to head the patter of his footsteps as he raises up those stairs they've built out of their tears and faith.
The voices didn't matter,
The images didn't matter,

They just wanted to hear.

The prayers.
The praises.
The lips smacking against the floors kissing off the trails he left on his path.

They'll sit and clasp their hands, sit on their knees, tilt their heads down, shut their eyes and pray.
Just for him.

They'll sing out their pleads, hold out their hearts and spill bloody tears for him.

They'll sing the story of the man and the woman clad in blood and black, their ashen faces so teasingly close as if their soon-to-occur kiss will suck and merge the souls hidden beneath.

They'll pull out the bullets and hand them to the patient in hope they help him escape the parade. They'll give him the two shot in the head if it helps.

And the ones with no voice will equip their pens to write the songs for the singers, the chants for the prayers and the yells clawing out of their insides.
Those will pour the words and let them drip out on the papers addressed to him; all of them, the people that gave the voice the beats and melodies; the guardians who elevated him when he cascaded down those stairs the first time.

Those wingless Angles helped him to be what he is.

They wiped the sliver tears before they fell out for the world to see, before they reached and contaminated the cores of the pure and the eyes of the innocent.
Those four Angels deserve a prayer, too.

They deserve more than a prayer.

So they'll sing and pray for them.
They'll find the wings.
They'll write them out and lace the words to form the delicate feathers and threads.
For them.

For him.


To listen to the treads of the above.
Touch the rain of his marching splendor.
Stab their succulent hearts for him and inscribe the passion held within on the pages of their clear chests for him to read.
For they will keep the faith.

As long as their weeping hearts pump with life,

They will keep the faith.