there is going to be hell to pay and oh God, i wish it on your every day on top of day if these walls could talk they would tell a different story of how a tarnished halo sprouted wish...and flew to hell harp strings are broken and this dove in white is stained blood red as the umbilical noose called the birth of carnal torture is bred and the vultures feast and her spirit is poured out in tears as the architect of her agony builds her haunting fears there is going to be hell to pay and oh God, i wish it on your every day you left her lifeless you left her breathless suffocating in the sick picturesque of our moon-lit hours there's no halo in this hell only a forehead battered paper thin but its shadows will always fall on unstable wind