(Crows, wipe the blood from the end of your claws.

Said the vulture

Lets gather like storms for the war.

Crows, as the night turns its skin into coal,

Dark as corpses but cluttered with gold.

They will label you thieves, wolves, and whores

But you are nothing less than angels,

Cast down and covered in black.)

Ain't this the bloodiest mess in the world? said the virgin, a torn little girl.

Boy, you went and made a sweet wreck of my soul, and I've already forgiven you.

And blood was running down

Her dress in streams into her hands where she

Was stitching on the flesh had left

In sections on the carpet near a bed that

Never slept while she was sleeping

In her clothes that he had laid with on

The floor with all his fingers crossed

In hoping that that distance

Wouldn't grow.

But how it grew,

And how it hurt,

And how it hallowed every memory had

Never felt was threatened by a thing the world

Could conjure up to kill them, but he let it kill them

What a bunch of fools we lovers are.

And now shes smiling, with her self put back together,

Just a shadow of the past before the war.

All sewn together, like a city sick from storms

And sick of waiting for a god to call the floods out of her home.

What a bunch of fools we lovers are

When tempted by the taste of flesh.

"My boy, you are nothing more than a thief and a whore

In a suit of the finest of armor." laughed the vulture.

"Pathetic little child, I am embarrassed for you."