The Facts are a Misrepresentation of the Truth

The rain drips in spirals
Slips in sinkholes
Mud, mixed with blood
Blinds our burning eyes
The slow decay
The bricks we've laid
To fix the bridges we've burned
And let the water flow under
Like some lost lesson learned
But never understood
So I'll flip up my hood
And walk off into the dark
Always your closest enemy
Whatever did you want with me and my half-human heart?

Cut the cords to watch them fall
From heights of hope
Sparks, the wires, setting fires
On statue faces in perfect places
Lost like a home gone south
And a princess in a high tower
Made of shining ice
Always reflecting back my own faults and dreams
In her gilded eyes
The glitter of ancient parades still infusing the dust
The helium hallucinogens still such a lift
But there's no escape from the consumer claws
A class of their own, these little voices say

Are these the scrapers?
Is this the snow?
A winter scape
Within which we wallow the whiles
Under a burning sun
Foreshadowing with its noonday light
Of the shifting shades
And your hand in mind
An ashy taste in my mouth
The saccharine and quinine
A bittersweet mirage of Cheshire shape

Happy unbirthday to the raven at her desk
The gold within her hairline, the clock within her chest
Beating just off-time with my own
So close, too close, not close enough
And back again, surrounded and alone
Your closest enemy, I never wanted to be
Whatever did you want with me?