what a losing game
to the clouds reaching
such a hateful flame
to the crowd preaching
with golden walls between the halls
we feel so hidden
the ending fall, the final brawl
in thrall to a villan
our fate is written
with sticks and stones
tricked by the ribbons
and high sweet tones
heavy fires under steady waves
feels like hours while we spend the weeks and days
bleeding but its not enough
screaming could be just a bluff
needle in haystack
tears in a puddle
fears sending waves back
derailing trouble
trapped in rooms with open doors
sinking keys in bloody floors
singing to broken strings
and dancing to the painful stings
