One slip, he’s down the gutter. His blood among the glass.
To stupid to get help, but too prideful to even ask.
He lies amongst the dead and his jacket hides a flask.
Who’s to say he’s here? Who’s to say he’s past?
I used to hold him close, but my trust just wouldn’t last.
I wanted him to stay, but he couldn’t hide the past.
His tears plead for freedom, but his eyes cry from need.
Sick is his mind from his vein’s dying greed.
Protected me and showed me this world is full of liars,
Building himself up on his own funeral pyre.
He climbed atop and lit the match, we watched him on fire.
Now watch him as he falls, to his old flame’s sire.
We watched him as he burned, his heart crying out,
Could we help him walk away and help him fight this doubt?
Yes we tried yes we did but his mind was too corrupt
His veins burned alive and we watched him self destruct.
He cries out alone his paintings becoming smears
On a canvas he had painted as it disappeared.
Could he save himself? Could he deny his past?
Only if he stopped himself just before he crashed.
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