It drips red and blue, until the angels scream.
It drips blue and purple, until the demons claim it under their iron grasp.
It drips purple and brown, until the wounds dry.
A silver blade that shows a demon in it's reflection.
Blood that covers this black rose bud.
Unmarked graves of screaming souls.
No man, shall ever set eye's on her again.
The blood dripped from her soul; as she cut her life string.
Making her skin turn blue and purple.
Making the ground turn red and brown.
" What a great useless fool" are what the voices screamed to her.
Her world as black as a pit.
The blade making mockery of her pain, by showing a demon in it's reflection.
While Heaven's grace giving her bitter rejection.
Bleak, darkness that made joy and glee of her pleading cries for help.
It was her tenth birthday, that day.
Forsaken from the holy lord, and given away to death.
Death dressing up as her sweet mother.
Oh poor sweet little Heather doomed by her mother.
Or was it her best friend?
That led her to her sorrowful end.
The demons dancing by the fire.
Hanging her soul by the wire.
Given away for no reason.
Making her season black instead of green,
But no one care's for sweet little Heather.
For her mother called her an "it".
And who can love an "it"?