Watch the scars of sins now dead
paint pretty pictures in pale skin
the ink runs, yearning to be read
and not seen, but understood within
She always said the sky is not green
but we accept it to be green for tis all we've seen
and things that seem simple
simply fall apart
which is why the sky is violet
Not knowing what to do, falling onto
and into her, the one who knew
of the violet skies and magenta cries
i rung your neck and watched her squirm
and worm your way through rocks, blood read in your
simply falling eyes of blue, now simply black
Simple lives simply fail
Blood wives tell that tale
but you and i both know
the the painting is much larger than that
eh, my pretty painting?
