Vintage Fake
Clerical collars for witches
And silver chains for priests
Thumbscrews unleash the sacred wine
Bits of Mass clinging to torture
Bind it up on the tides of time
If it floats, just hollow sleepless fits
So bite your tongue and will it to sink
You were never meant for bliss
Cloaks and silver daggers
Concealed within our lips
Designed to humble kings.
Again the simple way of things
Bleeds the color from our world
With blurry hues of pastel beige
Heaving with surprise and rage
At the rapier betwixt our ribs
Cracking every egg-shelled friend
Just another lie proclaiming peace
Another wrinkle, an older face
Another farce pretending end.
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