What Makes the Moon so Cold?
Cold girls are made of dead butterflies,
Lost to the sinuous night
Deaf as death and earth-shattering screaming,
So hard she can feel her heart burst in her chest.
Cold girls are made of dead butterflies.
Victims of all the lies
They feed themselves.
Lost girls, we cage our dreams,
Scratch out the dates and names.
Entranced as we are with change,
Is there another way?
Her fear is a cult with the players beside her
Sleeping away what is left of their lives
Dead girls are clothed in a mystery,
Wearing silk flowers that know not demise.
Six feet below, the horror unfolds
For the dead have beflowered the moon.
Those blooms that they’ve grown,
From the screams that were sown.
Have attracted the butterflies all on their own.
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