Angels

At three in the morning angels rip the wings from their backs
And revel at the mixture of their tears and blood not drowning sorrow.
With shaky hands and rusted blades they rip through flesh and bone
In hopes of tearing from them what they hold most sacred..
But there's nothing they can do for you are embedded deep within
Their very souls, their core... and I can't seem to rip you from me.

With broken spirit I look towards the Heavens and I am sad,
My maker turned his eyes from my direction and I,
I am abandoned to this emptiness within my bones,
Always in search of something or someone new to fill my voids..
To cover me in a new sense of hope,
To finally wash you from me, sin.

At three in the morning, I rip my wings from my back,
Well aware that I am nailing the door
Shut and myself out in the cold, I will never be able to go home..
But if you're not at my side, shoulder to shoulder and hand in hand
There is no Heaven that can quench my thirst of you,
There is no Hell that could match the pain of your departure.