Stolen and IrreparableA river to be painted, its shallowness closed by a reddish weeping, the mice who sew the forests thin, their bodies frail; taken for the keeping.
Balances of equations shrilled, such pedestals crumble and sink within ink, a nightmarish slither passes through seduction, near the graces stolen the explanation of 'think.'
Retrieval is forgotten no less, the mice have eyes of sparkling water, their shivers are wiped from a balanced mock; sealed past a grin, but without a daughter.
Unbalanced they remain with such a trivial pursuit, minus a permanent solution to the nature of darkness, lost are the means to even the structures; the end swims deep within its starkness.
The Malicious ClockThe malicious clock counts the children's heads, their bodies of ice stream wearily down, forever casted namelessly into somber; through the gardens their voices drown.
Of an angel's grace enslaved are their wills, for the secrets within are separately spelt, through the eyes of the damned are the contracts written; preparations are burnt living, but the papers shall melt.
Slaves of our evermore coming wrath, childish souls broken and glued with nobility, the veils of strategies enclose their mannequins; controlled by our standards they embrace hostility.
Years upon averages their meek bodies initiate tasks, to set aflame doors and bitter the placid, replace their organs with a simple flask; the clock observes all with a mask of acid.
Our Voices Create StarsBlue grasses of bleeding dolls lined neatly through my hair of white, they sing with me a grace of pureness, one strung together through a plague of smite.
The rains of ash with our cauldrons darkened, a shaded place of grey and night, we speak the whispers through the calling nightmares; a speckled window of blood to cast out the light.
Our flesh-woven faces of whitish tongues to string along the weakened who glide, within our bodies contain much innocent clockwork; though, through the wires a voice to hide.
Born of a puss-like existence mixed verily with a prideful glare, to each soul we dare to carry away far, their mouths pinched and flailing as was our mother's hair.
Lined neatly in the spacious darkness, we place them as a star of light; the evening's musk of reddish screeching, humanity's glare is banished from the night.
The Twilight GardenThrough the twilight garden of remorse, reason, and rest, our journey ends to begin a quest, one to immortalize the very best.
Our companions of swallow and significance have shrieked to opposition, their heirs of a green kiss mangled and torn; a more peculiar disposition.
Revival is our key to doors, brassed gently with the weeds, exceeding to proportions blinded; bound by roses and by seeds.
Blue eyes of sorts to observe their suffering, placid they are but continue to please, their times of anxious knowledge drown in submission; to them the pain is simply ease.
Within the garden children scatter, their brains of red shatter memories of rhyme, our exhibit is paid for with a simple blood-kissed letter; the twilight garden does not wait for time.
The Process and OpinionTrembles of padded moonlight blended delicately with a purpose, flush out the bleeding through their souls; decay and drown them to the surface.
To blackened eyes of a procedure so shaded, their intelligence bares not a trait; their eyes are blank with a power so red, the requirements state their colors be jaded.
My excellency to whom these are delivered, packaged with children lighter than air's breath, she awaits to devour them with self-satisfaction; my lady enjoys the triumph with death.
With pacts of removed instinct mixed neatly with crows, the process lives on forever within itself and beyond; the time shall never blink forth, nor behind a second moment; as she says to me dearly, "Let the dolls remain on the shelf."
'Ich Will' Inspired PoemCalmly entering a clockwork building of proper wealth and prestige, our motives are to uprise serenity; to create chaos and initiate a siege.
A walking explosion joins our masked crusade, to carry out the desired needs, it waits calmly on an ebony desk; it times the movements with assuring ease.
The civilians topple over and hide, their faces grim with a glimpse of terror; a young woman exceeds her bravery forth, a button is pushed, but one is more clever.
He steals a breath from her frightened soul, and dances calmly with her lifeless body; the authorities arrive with a nod of silence; dropped to the floor she is left to die.
Control is maintained within the complex, all remain silent without their breaths, outside the masses await the evils; cameras roll and crowds shriek to catch glimpse of the 'pests.'
Interviews of simple words captured with bleeding flashes of rebellion and pride, we stand before you with our intentions completed; the fires reign tall as does he who died.
The CodesSlender vowels of leaded instincts lay perished in the roads, to highest glory of the natures they dare speak the banished codes.
Six numbers of a burning child, two numbers clawed of a cat; ancient ways of puzzling normalities speak through their placid flat.
A raven through their backs of glass, it pecks their blood from veins, a second of terror to renounce their values; through their eyes bend countless chains.
Alas, these ancient codes of mortality shall be spoken once, but never thrice, for the ten boxes of serenity's clockwork must organize their dice.