There is no cure for a broken heart, on a night where the stars weep silent. Embryonic in their purity, the tears of ghosts fall quiet. Myriad dreams of the angels' brethren call unto their kin, but nothing ever seems to calm the darkness bared within.
In the guise of all humanity the darkest monsters lie, theirs tears of silent bloodshed are dripping from our sky. We tuck our heads to pillows to hide away in dreams. It appears that on this planet, things are becoming what they seem.
The darkest dream of all is the one that lies in the waking; the deepest fear of all, the one that brings us quaking. Wide awake through lucid dreams, amid them I fear I pass; their haunted souls from sleeping dreams-like children through broken glass.
Our sacred home we left behind, toils of love and loss, and now we wander here again: to weep on bloody moss. The demons dance unleashed, to the red staccato of our blood; as the silent tears fall swiftly, ashes turning into mud.
On weeping beds the children sleep, as dark wings throughout do grow. The dying star sings silently as fades it's last pure glow. Within these walls the heralds kept, the seasons pass them by, but out inside the glittering field, mourning stars light the sky.