Soul Pollution; Just Call Yourself a Fake

Guileless fingers, etching prayers on my face,
blotting out sunlight with whispers of grace.
They unsheathe needles from my veins;
some crows said I'm like an ugly rose,
rusted with crimson and thorned with pains.

The fashion of moons they made me wear,
a fake religion like some kind of fairytale.
Even wolves stopped believing;
stripped me bare,
no wonder they're jaded, sick and tired of deceiving -
themselves, bathing in black rainbows of despair.

Now naked,
nailed to blazing crosses,
wraiths take the virginity I thought was sacred.
Drenched with tears from angels previously raped,
laughter in the distance, smearing my losses -
like salty shadows in wounds; in my face shamefully draped.

Ancient...that's the name for old;
souls that have been starved by mold.
Tripped on a star fall wish,
succumbed to the side-effects of that pleasant anguish,
like a drug, baby, feel that pathetic addiction!
Pour the plaster all over your body,
call yourself a 'victim' of the epidemic confliction.

Cradled in seductive arms of the Grim Reaper,
screamed 'til my throat filled with blood,
too bad the Sandman made me a heavy sleeper.
Glass half-empty of mud,
pollution of dust on real memories, and don't let me wake,
dreams aren't enough when they're fake.