at the end of days when the wedding gowns are all but soot and leftover blackmarket mascara when the bombs finally lift and the curtains come down across the sunlight i will fill a pail with some old brackish water singing the old songs i once found laughably dull at the end of days when i come into the heart of my enemy we will look onto the other's countenance and all will be mended in that darkest place at the edge of the cold of night there like flowers blooming into fallow seasons we will blanch the dying earth with new and vibrant seed i will fill this pail though full of holes and rusted beyond its ability to tell the whisper of a story i will be at the end of days when the wedding gowns are all but soot married with the curtains open with the wind through our skeletal shapes i will be at the end of days when the wedding gowns are all but soot married with the curtains open with the wind through our skeletal shapes i will be at the end of days when the wedding gowns are all but soot married with the curtains open with the wind through our skeletal shapes i will be at the end of days i will be at the end of days i will be at the end of days i will be at the end of days
