The clouds are bleeding again;
crying their tears of blood.
And so I walk home
showered in crimson.
It's such a strange thing:
looking at something so seeming unrelated
and seeing yourself as you are inside.
How is it that the sky is my mirror?
That it knows me so well?
When I'm no sure that I know myself...
The puddles at my feet,
like so many shards of glass,
they seem to laugh to me.
Knowing my intent, they begin to sing.
What is that song?
I know what it's called...
It's Requiem... a funeral song,
a peaceful song,
a final song.
And finally I arrive.
I'm no longer in blood-filled tears,
no longer walking in crimson puddles,
but I'm still wet;
still dripping with all the clouds have cried.
Drying myself with a white towel,
it's fibers now stained,
I see myself in the mirror;
slowly my reflection fades
and all that's left is red.
The mirror breaks
(like the hear of an emo)
and lays before me...
just like the puddles...
A foreshadowing today?
The shards, they're sharp and soft:
promises of pain and comfort in their edges.
There's nothing quite like the feeling you get
as your skin is split,
or the way blood dances down an arm
and drops to the floor.
Drop... drop... drop.
Oh look,
now I'm raining.
Just like the clouds.
I'd say that I'm sorry, but I'm not.
I'm not anything... not anymore.
Now I'm nothing.
Nothing except released.
©Alie Benson 2007
crying their tears of blood.
And so I walk home
showered in crimson.
It's such a strange thing:
looking at something so seeming unrelated
and seeing yourself as you are inside.
How is it that the sky is my mirror?
That it knows me so well?
When I'm no sure that I know myself...
The puddles at my feet,
like so many shards of glass,
they seem to laugh to me.
Knowing my intent, they begin to sing.
What is that song?
I know what it's called...
It's Requiem... a funeral song,
a peaceful song,
a final song.
And finally I arrive.
I'm no longer in blood-filled tears,
no longer walking in crimson puddles,
but I'm still wet;
still dripping with all the clouds have cried.
Drying myself with a white towel,
it's fibers now stained,
I see myself in the mirror;
slowly my reflection fades
and all that's left is red.
The mirror breaks
(like the hear of an emo)
and lays before me...
just like the puddles...
A foreshadowing today?
The shards, they're sharp and soft:
promises of pain and comfort in their edges.
There's nothing quite like the feeling you get
as your skin is split,
or the way blood dances down an arm
and drops to the floor.
Drop... drop... drop.
Oh look,
now I'm raining.
Just like the clouds.
I'd say that I'm sorry, but I'm not.
I'm not anything... not anymore.
Now I'm nothing.
Nothing except released.
©Alie Benson 2007
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