Madmen glory songs

Writing poetry that drips into blood puddles
And darkness the reflection
I am dissecting the perfection of the damned.

Oh my, where have we gone wrong?
I painted you some golden petals,
But they say these things are never raw.

Writing poetry like chasing rabbits in a dark forest.
You snatch the truth and shake it
Till you break it
And let the moon reflect

But don’t let them lie—
These things are never raw.