Surrealism, warped realities, conveniently altered,
So that the bad days are painted over in a layer of gold,
You claw apart each delusion with cracked nails,
Staining the paper crimson with the blood of dreams you killed.
God hates me as much as I hate myself,
I don't care about him, it was you I was worshipping,
The bleeding shrine is closing.
The sky pours down its translucent, crystal blood,
I guess the celestial bullet-wounds never heal.
Daydreams have morphed into something lucid,
Their code etched across a gravestone in scarlet letters,
The granite-grey bleeds black-red through hieroglyphic scars,
I am no longer able to subconsciously escape,
So I will bring down this mental hell,
For I will kill this mortal abyss of flames.