The arrow pierces the throbbing heart of the iron-wrought twelve and lets
the herald sound as the twelve falls from its place on the clock and breaks
in pieces upon the cold cement below.

He's late.
He's always late.

She sits upon the bottom stair with tears in her eyes that have frozen over
with the cold in her blood.
He's late and she is alone.

She once knew a man that smiled sunshine into the grey of the world that she
knows.
And when she cried he would wipe the tears from her eye and curve those lips
with words that mean nothing anymore.
He was a hero and she was a rose.

It's kind of funny how with one twist of fate that a life will curl to the
wounds of words.

She doesn't like herself anymore and she's finding it harder and harder to
carry on another day.
He used to make it easy when he watched her write.
She didn't write-- she composed.
She wasn't an artist but an imaginiste.
He'd admit the timing was off-- but just by a bit-- he was a busy man and
she wouldn't understand the reasons behind the frequenting lies.
He didn't know that those lies would lock arms and show the girl the new
taste of blood.

She never knew why.

There was once an angel on her shoulder but it shot itself and died.

She used to be a dreamer but the words were too much to take.
The pressure was overflowing and she couldn't ride the wave.
The ocean took her out and the sharks crushed her bones.
The man couldn't percieve images through those golden goggles-- and for the
first time she was alone.

He made her a promise once but took it back the next day.
She couldn't understand and the beast dragged her to her grave.

A drink for a drop of blood-- they'd sign along the dotted line in a scrawl
of red.
She thought that it made perfect sense but it seemed that she was wrong.
He took the bar to Heaven and sang an ugly song.
The ballad was only fit for the mouth of a gun.
For the first time she found out that dying could be fun.

No one noticed her shaking and sickly pale in class.
Despite the fear of blood and pain she'd taken on the task.

She'll never be the same now and she knows it well-- there's monsters in her
head and she can't fight the fear to take the first shot and be the one to
change.
And yet he can't see this-- his vision's been obscured by lies and secrets--
shaken, not stirred.
He's let the building crash to the ground and didn't call for help-- he was
to drunk to pick up the phone and the emergency room could tell.

There's words he can't remember but she hears him say them every day-- she
knows that there is no meaning but she likes to dream.
Instead he's telling her things she doesn't want to hear.
The woman lingering on his lips is not her mother-- she's waiting for the
news to collapse and break her brittle heart.
There's no solace in the man that used to make her smile.
Just ugly things that make her hurt and cry.

He's late again.
He said he'd make it up to her by aligning the stars to those angry artistic
marks.

Later, he gave his reasoning but it never made any sense-- it was just
nonchalant slips of the tongue between sips of cheap whiskey and wine.
She gave him second chances but he never pulled through.
She drifted away from the world and in alcohol he drowned.

She used to be an artist but she's a sinner now.
 
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