Glasses made of silver or Caskets called cradles: an original poem

I'm staring at you through glasses made of silver,
your edge's are glistening under the lights from the stage.
You look more like your photograph every day.

I'm walking through your door and stepping over
the devil's teeth. Heaven's door isn't the only pearly gate in town.

I'm cutting myself on your silver lining,
I pay for your company in pints but you glitter in my veins.
You're bleeding me dry but it's better than drowning.

You're lacing our fingers and leading me to the cradle,
picking me up and laying me down, but my wings won't fit.
You're handing me the knife and I don't think twice.

I sold everything I am for everything you wanted,
and when I was empty, you smiled and flew away.