LYRIC



My words fail. Your mouth is pale and on the cusp of vacuity, beauty thinly veiled.

Oh

Harped on ’til bare, ’til a fair face worn swears it’s lovelier this than to be born adorned in scorn.

Vines of ivy, minds of envy
A tendency that tends to me.
Vines of ivy, minds of envy
A tendency that attends to me.

Upon the cusp of your beauty, your beauty, your beauty thinly veiled.

Oh

Tart, tart, tart’s the taste
to all, all, all that are placed
into these vessels.
Vacuity, beauty thinly veiled.

A Circle of cranes.
A Circle of cranes.
A Circle of cranes.
A circle of cranes
we are.

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