Portraits of hope reflecting off a blade that bears my name.
Hanging inches from my head, there is no light bright enough to bring my shadow back to life.
A presence that the fortunate weren't predisposed to feel.
My seance of surrender will fall upon deaf ears.
Promises I have disowned appear before me resembling the outline of my soul.
Unravel me, every sentence makes me sick.
Bound and abandoned by a noose that lifts me off my feet.
Hanging like a halo overhead, I know your rope was made for me.
Fading, I fall backwards into the dust.
Positioned vertically, but a casket knows to catch me.
Buried only waist-deep in the earth, we carve the fading features of our silhouettes into our coffin doors.
Hope is a blade that bears my name.
I know your rope was made for me.