Where no thoughts remain at the door to nowhere.
Where autumn crawls under each fallen dream
to carry it beyond forgiveness…
I’ve learned to count backwards from illusion,
hoping to reach the point of no return
into some stranger’s thoughts about my own defeat.
When we sit down,
my soul and thee,
No one’s afraid anymore
of fragile girls with dragons
tattooed anywhere in between
the top of their heads
and the long, old train which
left the day innocence
were last seen in their tears…
When dies, innocence leaves a hollow scar,
in which hope lays before the final door slam,
It lays there petrified, deep beneath pages
of runaway gospels.
On the day when all guardian angels
will cover away the sight of dying children,
a mighty flaming sword shall fall…
That day, the fragile girls shall return.
With their dragons.