Silence follows the velvet tears,
The moving picture
is pitch and perfectly white,
The architects of our flaws and fears
I know, t.v. shows.
We’re nothing but servants
of black and white moving screens.
The movies portray the perfect scene.
Ash is pitch with bits of white,
scattered across my tattered movie screen.
Aw how to portray such devotion,
to a screen with immortality,
for the actors that give their life’s blood.
Like a vampire slaying its meat,
for media knows how to bite.