What is to become of the lovers who cut off each other wings

And the fallen angels without the ability to fly

Will they continue to fall out of the sky

And into a blood lagoon

But what is to become of the music played from the scarlet hands of the musician

Who had nothing to do but hang himself on his guitar string

Because the tears of the world left him drowning in his own drugged daze

He couldn't handle the last words of the lyricist's cult classic

And the notes he choked upon screamed

"But what about the eulogy?"

It can't be seen it can't be said

About what the dream of death is but I bet its no nightmare

If so many want to lay themselves down to sleep

Nightmares keep the insane awake and the awake insane

Thinking their own monsters will walk them to the edge

Little do they know it's their turn to jump

Was there such a morbid tune

Than that one which echoed through me in June

As I wrote my own death wish on the scraps of paper I was thrown

With the blood bleeding from my featherless wings and the plural of a broken bone

Who will write my eulogy from my childhood dreams

Who will comfort my mother's screams

It's not her fault he lovingly cut off my sorry excuse for a life

And about the Eulogy

I have written my own

Sing it when you feel alone

And imagine what was going through my mind

What was to become of me too?