"We're all Supernova'd
and scattered toward the stars
looking for whatever light is left"
Yet he says I'm a Saint
an Angel of Reality
And it's funny how
he never needed that
before
In the City of pLastic Angels, the
Haven for Hollowed Hills
like a wind-swept sea of broken mirrors
in a world too weak to reflect
And still he's all I see
My little Dust Angel in the City of Devils
Crying impure tears on the
cleanest grave around