Bedding ghosts.

I have a beautiful perfection,
of imperfection,
of studied insanity,
of over-analysed plans
and when the beauty falls away,
when the perfection has no reason to stay,
I will be left sitting alone,
perfectly content,
with the friends in my head.

Beauty is filagree,
only a perception of my nightmare embraced bride,
she watches the killing from his slaughtering teeth,
blood and bones on the blessed church floor,
have you ever seen such red?
But it's okay,
when the nightmare's gone,
when the bride is alone,
she'll be perfectly content,
with the souls in her bed.

Forever,
I will be yours,
but the train's pulling in,
on it's shadowy truth binge,
like the alcohol he put to my lips,
strong, scented, brutal,
charmed and stunning,
to stare at those eyes with their wicked demand, demise,
and when I'm left in my inebriated state,
I'll be perfectly content,
with the memories in my scars,
with the friends in my head,
with the souls in my bed.