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.
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."
MyselfThe jar of tears has fallen to pieces, lost are the memories from within the creases.They've all abandoned me, my silent friends, our bonds have withered beyond their ends.So predictable this scene truly was, the girl who fell from not a single cause.Twas my own fault, for I banished all help, rotted to pieces within myself.Though alas a mark has been etched within stones, "My soul lives forever without my bones."
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.