William Campbell Powell © 2024
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There's a place that no-one speaks of at the end of Meeting Street
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Where the faithless and the loveless and the heartless lovers greet
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It's the place where last-chance losers come to live their hopeless dreams
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Where guilt walks masked as innocence and nothing's as it seems
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The past mistakes we left behind, re-opened and laid bare
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It's the Hall of Fallen Angels and I was welcomed there
Dark angel calls to angel and two hearts forbidden beat
As one, and one draws closer, and passions flame and heat
In secret rooms we threw off caution, and played our fantasies
And I crept home and filled my once love's ears with hollow lies
The new mistakes we're building, which you and I now share
In the Hall of Fallen Angels, in the bed of I-don't-care
The ones that we have left behind, the first loves we now wrong
With lies that sound so sweet but taste so bitter on the tongue
A stolen hour at noon-time spent in passion on a quilt
The room keys shine like gold but all they open up is gilt
The futures that we hoped for have turned to dark and cold
In the Hall of Fallen Angels, where we count the love we stole