The mist twist and turns around the sharp corners of the mountains
It reminds her of Silent hill during the coal fires.
It's beautifully lonely as she walks down the twisted highway,
Surrounded in her white angelic delicacy.

The bloodstreams inside run dry,
Under her eyes, and in her cheeks people see the drought.
Heroin Chic hands outreach to any understanding form of life left.
Yet all she catches is headlights.

And her feathers fall.
Misunderstood but forgotten.
They lay beneath her memory.
On the pavement
Youth defines this beautiful tragedy as darkness falls.

He sees nothing but read in every textbook and failed tests
They point and prod at those ribs, outreaching for an embrace.
In the fetal position lodged in the stem of his brain
Is a beautiful boy, who doesn't want to escape.

And through another nit picked fight from those he dies to impress
His blood boils underneath in raised rivers
As he makes way out the window with his backpack seeking salvation
And finds only headlights.

And his feathers fall.
Misunderstood but forgotten.
They lay beneath her memory.
On the pavement
Youth defines this beautiful tragedy as darkness falls.

We are not your angels, we aren't made of steel
We are not your angels, you don't have a prayer
Bend us break us and we'll shatter into thin air
Even hell, gets a beauty from somewhere

We are not your angels, We aren't made of steel
We are not your angels, you don't have a prayer
You- don't- have- a...
Prayer

And our feathers fall.
Our daemons call.
We break and call
For our angels.

We never had a prayer.