Still abhoring second chances, wings of tarnished silver gleam
beneath the glow of your reflection, casting back a silent scream.
Exile's wrath negates the mercy shown to you by distant smiles,
as I take my place before you, here, at last, our love defiles
the rules of wisdom set by angels, gazing down from ravaged skies,
and here, beneath our seventh heaven, we'll watch as the cosmos dies.
Love is not replaced with loathing for the sake of empty holes
within the hearts of politicians standing by election polls.
Tarnished silver won't be polished under rule of heartless kings
who "backed by God" declare the slashing off of countless human wings.
Second chances have no place here, since they will not let me be,
propaganda deems you guilty, simply for accepting me.
Changes can be made in writing, but the mindsets stay the same
within the rock-hard skulls of nimrods treating my life like a game.
Love is not a shameful insult, love will not be voiced in vain
by stupid children knowi