What is to become of me

In little pieces of hurt
and in giant slices of pain
A failing heart grows weaker
Induced with smoke and dust and dead blood

Through expressionless eyes
And motionless dances
Wandering away in the wood
Loses everything except for a blank page

No brain that consumes
and no smile that holds
A pitiable arrogance strengthens
Unable to see light even in the face of God

Tears do not capture
What never existed
But creation is a mystery
Even God can't weep for in agony

What will become of me?
What is to become of me?
It'll go back to being her own business
I'm a good girl, I am.

But what is to become of me?
With nothing, but a bad dance
And a fading dream
And a dying grace
What is to become of me?

In tears of withdrawal
In screams of protection
In phone calls of hope
Nothing remained,
But a weakening heart
And an arrogant hair-flip.