A hand, distant
Suspended in night
Clutches something red
Something perhaps alive
Perhaps dead

Dripping liquid
The fluid essence of life
And the drops resonate
In the emptiness which contains them

A symphony of lies plays
Inside minds emptied of honesty

Yet truth still resonates
Clutched in hands wreathed in darkness
Bleeding as it fades away

Songs live forever
Writers die

Truth lives forever
Honest men die