Her Beauty Left the Skies In Fury

She stood there weeping crimson tears
Far better for the dead to suffer
She figures the moon out
But is burdened by its secrets

The dead never pondered life anyways
 The dark laments to ease her ego

Cloaked in misdeeds and feral scarves
She is smothered by the shade of lives long since wasted
Better truant like the dying stars whom never could keep a fucking date

The skinny dawn to drag the days farther down into deserts better fitted between paneled glass

Oh how the ache of time tickles her fancy
A maiden of divine design
Her beauty destroys empires and she laughs as all else burns

The palace of her wrath so beautiful amongst the decay of withered souls

I undress her from the grave
Oh how futile as I lay here rotting