Mourning by an angel's grave
On the hill there is a boy not made of the blood of man.
Siting by a cross,
mourning his loss,
of the love he'll never see again.
Twilight hits shimmering blades, casting shadows upon lonely graves.
Mad at the maker, the father, the creator for leaving him this way.
A monster evermore as death settled the score,
taking his father to heaven's gate.
Mourning his loss,
he looks at the cross,
wishing it was a lie.
Night falls on that lonely cross,
as he lays by she burial side.
Missing the days,
In which he could praise,
her in the sunlight.
Leaning on the cross,
he mourns for her loss,
for his beloved is now,
tattered and frayed.
Wishing he could cry,
he longs to die,
so he may be by her side,
once again.