02-19-2015, 11:49 PM
Pardon Me, My Pages Burn
Little by little, you fell for her,
Little by little, you fell for me,
You devoured whole chapters about her,
To know her in her entirety.
So you flew through chapters too quickly,
Too quickly, you had reached too far,
Sometimes I wished you read slower,
For her song was quickly tinting sour.
Still you saw her live through me,
You breathed down my spine,
You turned the page to her,
To the protagonist of my maker's design.
But you lot don't get it, do you? You reached chapter 13.
After that, all the times when you thought you had misplaced me,
All the times when I was hard to find,
I was hiding, tearing out in dusty corners,
I was being far too kind.
But you lot really don't get it, do you? I am a morbid write.
My climax is the end of a sweet illusion,
It is nothing short of a murder drawn out long,
From the start of her, to the end of me,
It's a gruesome end to her sweet song.
It's also my deepest secret.
So today, as you finally rested me back,
On the familiar mantelpiece, far too close to the edge,
Below, the flames fought a lost battle, and today again...
you left the familiar bookmark in me neatly wedged.
But on the rancid chapter 13.
And it burns,
And I wish you read no further,
You were straying too close,
Too close to the edge of the long drawn murder.
And I have wished...
I have wished we were sempiternal, and I have wished we were free,
But today, I only wish for you not to see how vile my maker had made me to be.
So, today at the edge of the mantelpiece,
Standing at the edge of the murder drawn out long,
I choose for you to never know of the end to the sweet song.
Because I love you so.
So I sigh and I 'slip' into the hearth,
To my self-destruction, to my cremation ground;
I make a scene, I fly some ash,
My entrails warp and blacken with a crackling sound.
Because I love you so.
And pardon me, I shriek, I disgrace myself in my pyre,
And this was the maddest of my mad heart's desires,
And pardon me, as I burst into flames,
Pardon me, I'll never be the same.
Little by little, you fell for her,
Little by little, you fell for me,
You devoured whole chapters about her,
To know her in her entirety.
So you flew through chapters too quickly,
Too quickly, you had reached too far,
Sometimes I wished you read slower,
For her song was quickly tinting sour.
Still you saw her live through me,
You breathed down my spine,
You turned the page to her,
To the protagonist of my maker's design.
But you lot don't get it, do you? You reached chapter 13.
After that, all the times when you thought you had misplaced me,
All the times when I was hard to find,
I was hiding, tearing out in dusty corners,
I was being far too kind.
But you lot really don't get it, do you? I am a morbid write.
My climax is the end of a sweet illusion,
It is nothing short of a murder drawn out long,
From the start of her, to the end of me,
It's a gruesome end to her sweet song.
It's also my deepest secret.
So today, as you finally rested me back,
On the familiar mantelpiece, far too close to the edge,
Below, the flames fought a lost battle, and today again...
you left the familiar bookmark in me neatly wedged.
But on the rancid chapter 13.
And it burns,
And I wish you read no further,
You were straying too close,
Too close to the edge of the long drawn murder.
And I have wished...
I have wished we were sempiternal, and I have wished we were free,
But today, I only wish for you not to see how vile my maker had made me to be.
So, today at the edge of the mantelpiece,
Standing at the edge of the murder drawn out long,
I choose for you to never know of the end to the sweet song.
Because I love you so.
So I sigh and I 'slip' into the hearth,
To my self-destruction, to my cremation ground;
I make a scene, I fly some ash,
My entrails warp and blacken with a crackling sound.
Because I love you so.
And pardon me, I shriek, I disgrace myself in my pyre,
And this was the maddest of my mad heart's desires,
And pardon me, as I burst into flames,
Pardon me, I'll never be the same.