Sick of This Glory, Life Fades Away
to the tune of “Sic Transit Gloria… Glory Fades” by Brand New
Keep the noise low. You don’t want him to blow it.
Shaking head to toe while your right hand does the “slide for the wand.”
Quickens your heartbeat.
Puts Sirius straight into the ground.
You can’t recover from a night like this.
A victim still lying veiled, completely motionless.
A thought moves in the dark to Potter.
Hear a boy bracing tight against the sheets barely whisper, “this is so messed up.”
Upon arrival, the students had all stared.
Dripping wet and clearly depressed he’d headed straight for the stairs.
No longer here, but a boy between lives.
Unprepared for a life full of lies and failing relationships.
(In the room: the thought of where the act becomes the art of going on)
He keeps his head low. He doesn’t want to blow it.
He’s not like his friends, doesn’t want to feel what he’s felt.
His stomach turns and he thinks of throwing up.
But the demon lurking inside calls him forth and he starts growing up.
CHORUS:
The fever. The focus.
The reasons that I had to believe you weren’t sharing my soul.
Die young and save everyone else.
The times had. The thought of… it used to be the reason I breathed but now it’s choking me up.
Die young and save everyone else.
The mind knows that this doesn’t seem quite fair.
Despite everything he learned from his friends he doesn’t feel so prepared.
Voldemort is breathing quiet and smooth. Potter is gasping for air.
“This is will be the last time,” V. says.
He fakes a smile and raises his wand against them.
Voldemort keeps his hands pinned down at his sides.
Potter’s holding back from showing him exactly what it really feels like.
Who is a lamb? Who is the slaughter?
They are both going too fast and all he ever wanted was to live.
Everything he tells us is having an effect.
He whispers that he enjoyed killing his parents…
(In the room: the thought of where the act becomes the art of going on)
So much more than he would ever give, a life full of pain and no meaningful relationship.
He keeps his hands pinned down at his sides.
He waits for it to end and the hating in his guts to subside.
[Chorus]
[Instrumental Break]
(In the room: the thought of where the act becomes the art of going on)
[Chorus]
Submitted by: Nina L.
