The Disfigured FamilyMother, mother, on the door he pounds, candy he brings us of a glass-like house, enter he may, or may he will; your life is speckled of this 'loving' spouse.Father, father, our mother is mad, she swings and slices without her hand, a candied entrance to cleave our bodies; is she lost this dearly without demand?Sister, sister, they are most certainly lost, a moss grown in them with a missing frost, shall we bury our givens and run from their favour; jobless and wealthy is their steep cost.Myself, myself, all have slain low, shall you speak not a word and sail a river to flow, may you enter or leave, is it now or no; farewell my plagued members, I must now go.
Such ThingsFleece of a mortal to sing blandly and cluster, a knife without ebony but persistent as snow,let us dance to the nightshade and cloud veins with blue luster, the rivers sink deeply, through sharp bells do they flow.A calming noise to envelop but a cause never to follow, a stake open and bloody, without shame does it pour, shallow doors cast them drowning without a mellow complexion, obsessed we are not; drain such thoughts through the floor.Eyes dreamt of a desert to seal our donations, a compact once secluded with titanium and glass, refrain from their freedom and ashen their horrors, darkness pays with cold fires, and never once without class.
Within Drawers We HideWithin drawers we hide with eyes gleaming like sliver, combinations of flows with fleeces of spells, the children lie sleeping with ears open to slumber, shaded witches we are, always grasping bronzed bells.Into their meek bodies slither deep do our limbs, crawling within fleshy organs, thus, planting our faults, hear us not scratching further to pierce crimson rivers, dreamless sleepers they are; tendons leak as they waltz.Through dark grottoes of nameless we grace upon acid, gently padding their bodies with a silicone-like press, it may appear to degrade them, although, not a muscle dare tremble; our work is complete within this dear guest.Race out of their motionless we do with blue hearts, our symbols burnt neatly with a touch of sugar, to others we soar on wings built gently, into hiding we glide, never once do we shiver.
Engulfed by PainShallowed of an ocean's crest, left buried in sand to neutralize red waters, a seal tied directly upon your chest; left rotting you are by three young daughters.Within a home of dry soap and marble, bled heavily they did by your very hand, an evening of maelstrom to enrage their minds further; a plot was sliced thickly to bury you into land.Countless months of torture to bring about meaning, a thought to envelop the darkness of man, one morning to slaughter you without knives or a 'reason;' to the beach you brought them, much singing they began.Hours and winds to thrust the clock further, lying down you had slumbered and forgotten your reign, a cavern to empty and bury you without screaming; widen your eyes to darkness, breathe within their pain.
The Factory of Structured IndividualsA factory cleansed of processed famine, coddled and strangled are the victims' flesh, injections to deplete a sense of mortality, each body is bloodied to maintain and refresh.The walls composed of plastered infants, in orange lakes were they drowned to preserve, strung along are young ones, minus morals and values; each one marches bound intestine to nerve.Throughout this facility of clear intentions, such bodies are stripped of their very lives, a coldness sinks deep within its shutters, peeled off are their souls - without white knives.Melted with plastic of children's bones, they are birthed by cycles of murder and remorse, blue blooded and vicious to price such a treasure; from here they are bonded, from here is their source.
EnslavedWithout the fallen are burned children's eyes, their mouths filled with water inside their heads, a spell of dark envy to bind hearted chains; furthermore they are cast amongst the dead.Black suns of the cold to enslave codes of torture, spiraled mirrors of crones to bleed through their wills, a lie of soft walls to execute the weary; the numbers climb high as it silently kills.Their nights are days to all who whisper, a crystal of moons to swallow their worth, not a word of regret escapes their pink flesh; a finalized project shall be to end birth.