These dreams, these capes.
What we fear most is twisting our arms
And tying them in bows behind our backs
To leave us in the despondent streets.
A rotting gift for some poor hero to find and unwrap in horror
As the truth slips out.
Then we will know.
Then we will stand motionless at the oceans edge.
And only dark will be left.
And these dreams that we dream so well
These capes that rest on our shoulders,
blades and scales on our backs.
They will rule supreme
And be the black truth,
The leather fist at our throats.
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