Her wounds are weeping eyes, 

black as the hell she's created inside her,

like the one she built

brick by brick by broken bone. 

She is a void,

a shell of magnificent beauty

with cascading locks

and limbs that go on for miles and miles.

Her skin has long since turned to ice.

Marble-fine, she was Michelangelo's secret muse.

He needed her, he wanted her

but she left him unfulfilled.

He carved and carved

but could set no angel free,

he crashed and burned

and she laughed as his fingers turned into ash.

'Bye-bye, beautiful', she whispers

and she laughs (oh how she laughs)

every time she watches grandeur fall.

She goes from place to place,

Whitechapel to the needy streets of New Orleans.

The souls she's collected fall to her feet.

They crash. They burn bright enough to light the whole sky.

Her heart is a tarnished lie, 

maleficent knowledge

of what really lies

behind the masks we all wear. 

Upon cobblestone paths, she leads a trail,

and we try to follow it to her.

It shines like a beacon in the night

yet we still wander lost.

Her walls are covered,

photographs of empty faces,

fragments of empty lives

once so beautiful.

She knows us,

knows us well.

She feeds of the nightmares

we create from all the bits of Heaven

that have fallen by our feet.

Needy. Hungry (I hunger. Please, please...).

Feed off the wicked.

The beauty we pretend we see

fades away.

She claws. Our flesh she bears.

Ugly. Red. Raw.

Our eyes she plucks out and tosses to the sky.

Bye bye, beautiful. Bye bye.