At the end of days
When the wedding gowns are all but soot
And leftover black-market mascara
When the bombs finally lift
And the curtains come down across the sunlight
I will fill a pail with some old brackish water
Singing the old songs I once found
Laughably dull
At the end of days
When I come into the heart of my enemy
We will look onto the Other's countenance
And all will be mended in that darkest place
at the edge of the cold of night
there like flowers blooming into fallow seasons
We will mend the dying Earth with new and vibrant seed
I will fill this pail though full of holes
And rusted beyond its ability to tell the whisper of a story
I will be at the end of days, when the wedding gowns are all but soot
Married with the curtains open
With the wind through our skeletal shapes
Pressed once more from the dirt
I will be at the end of days
I will be at the end of days
I will be at the end of days
I will be at the end of days
I will be at the end of days
I will be at the end of days
I will be at the end of days
I will be at the end of days
I will be at the end of days