The Bled

The signal flares will light the way to the scene of the accident,
where we'll dance like a pile of teeth in a broken mouth.
Such a sick celebration.
Everyone loves a fucking tragedy in epic proportions.
Let's set our hearts at self-destruct.
Like scarlet drips on a white tile floor.
A cardiac metronome.
We'll scrape the guardrail from our teeth and start again.
There's a flood in the infirmary where we'll swim through broken glass.
Our prosthetic limbs will keep us afloat.