Music is the wound that blood drips through.

It pours out of you, leaving you empty, but full. It fills you.
They were singing, singing so loudly.
Pouring out their music, but bleeding, bleeding.
They chant and march, along the embroidered floor, rich with heavy rugs.
Praise God! They sing, blasting out the words.
They sing until all the blood has poured out of them,
but yet they still stand. They will not fall. The doors slam open,
and blue eyes, and blonde hair has surrounded the singers.
Fall, we chant, fall, fall! Some singers fled, others stayed.
Pits open at their feet, for if they will not fall, we must make them.
Diaries and knives fly out of the pit that has been dug,
possessions that reflect on the people in it.
But they were not people, no, no! They were not people,
for people crumble, no person could be that strong.
They look different, so they can't be like me. But they scream,
they scream just like I do. And they cry, they cry just like I do too.
The floors grow, grow over the pits, making them disappear.
The people aren’t real. But, I have my shadow, and they have their shadow,
what makes us so different? No, no, no!
They are fakes, and I am real! I am not going to fade into history,
we will last forever! I am real, I am good!
We are the heroes, the saviours! We are saving our people!
But then why do I feel so empty?
I too am bleeding through my music,
but I am not being filled back. I am empty, a shell.
I was not always so, but through my own actions I have hollowed myself,
I have lost my shadow.