Cathedral bells and books of dust,
that crumble like a rusty chain,
that once hung around your neck.

Pale skin, pale eyes, pale hair,
snow and lace and other white things.

Delicate once and never again
hardened by blows uncalled for
a righteous flight into the night
when the pennance paid behind steel doors
of bars and chrome where glittering fame
lay out of reach in the hands of God,
He who brought you to this place,
pay pennance for your sins,
a face scarred and marred and mangled,
but beautiful marble still,
and eyes that softly shine
in the light of the gun you hold.

Romans and priests can hold you back,
your mind is gone but the soul remains,
To each and every one who knew,
The penalty of the name.

Alis volat propriis.
He flies by his own wings
My sad, sad angel,
and the cathedral bells ring.