Alice dreams of pretty things
as night falls down around her,
but when morning breaks she cannot wake
and the pictures all begin to fray…
butterflies crawl, dragging broken wings,
like the promises that bound her.
Alice tugs at gilded chains
but the stones will not relinquish;
they grimly hold her wrists so coldly,
kept strong by secrets still unfolding…
like the butterflies she is almost maimed
as everything changes and stays the same,
so aware of the air and the drafty despair,
'cause she knows she's just a candle flame
that her fears have not yet extinguished.
Alice walks between the lines
that branch about within her spine
and curl beneath her soul—
there's nothing lurking in the shadows,
waiting for her ribs to shatter,
but imagination carries her away,
away, away from all control.
Alice swallows inhibitions
as they wind about her tongue
and stem the words she flung
against the walls and floors and ceilings
so she wouldn't face contrition
for all the wasted plans
and all the squandered feelings
she allotted to the beauty of the damned.
Alice cries for recompensement
and the beauty of the damned.