I cut my finger and it bled.
The rest of them just woke up dead.
A wreath of flame upon my head,
and dirges sung from what I said.
In water deep upon the sky,
the lightning whispered in my eye,
as thunder wailed a plaintive cry,
He never got to say Goodbye,
I mourn the loss of what I stole
from the one who took it all away,
and wish with every tainted
breath that the needle of time had skipped that day.
Alas, it is not mine to give, but it is my lot to hold at bay.
You want to talk a little while,
but there is nothing left to say.
The fiery tongue of angry spirit
may partly be drawn from the demons you've shown.
I must confess that the acid beauty
for which I'm loved is not my own.
I am but a stray seed that your rantings have sewn.
I chaotically flourish while you wilt alone.