It is cold in this place As if the satin walls of purposeful isolation have tasted betrayal and much like a vengeful sun have succomb to the raindrops of concrete complextion It is as if every angelic voice that ever breathed life in this place finds now no use for copper blood too much does it tarnish when halos were never meant to rust Empty because every color takes without leaving any Empty besides angry clouds that never forget my face Tarnished as all skin has already turned Angry as every dream falls empty as it burns Wrong to believe that the sun will find strength to be alive again Wrong to believe that anything in this place ever gave a damn Wrong to believe that I shouldn’t die for what I am.