In pairs they tear their hearts out
for the nothing man,
they touch the sky with the same unyielding
passion
that one uses to touch it's face.

They - after milk no doubt
from the breast of god,
or some small crumble of faith
left on his lip.
They aren't master of their own time,
they are servants of fate.

So leave your cold, barren moon to
watch over those kingdoms
you raised an ruined,
because tomorrow,
like a lonely lover tossed aside
they will descend from their prisons
with but one goal.
And sister, you don't wanna
be around when they do.

So tonight, while there's still time
surrender your heart to any thief
that washes his hands in that
promised well of...

Tonight love,
before your forced to announce your nothingness.