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 DrowningTo the lake of dead serenity, so harsh, wintry, and pale, my sinking ship grudgingly dances without a single, tarnished sail.For I am utmost weary and always searching a way to my coming demise; never displayed in the public's horrid view, I truly loathe their lively cries.I swim to the bottom, around the dead bodies, never glancing up to eye the land again; the water calls to me, whispering my existence, it's now the clock to determine the pain.A tombstone and shackles sleep endlessly down, to them I see the way, I stand in Death's hands, so brittle yet immense; my drowning is initiated today.The shackles clench tightly to my sickly ankles, the tombstone etches the placement and roll; assuring not a breath is drawn from my body, I clench the organs from my very soul.The final glimpse of dark moonlight shatters, darkness gives way to my closing eyes; a bubble implodes on the rotting surface, Death's toll had been paid without the lies.
The Absolute ChildrenInto the malnourished cauldron of bittersweet clarities, we smoothen the artificial, plastic pastes of injected, glass dexterities.Shined freshly on the bloodied hands who observe from further high, the puss is cleansed to bleach the package of the childrens' placid eye.Such terror forced into their meekly bodies, such repair demanded with pride; "Their perfection is an absolute;" the toxins are bred from their hide.Into foul structures, placed, into addictive medicines, bound, their mouths are sealed by a bleeding price tag; care to listen to their sound?
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."
Chilled WisdomTo quiet fjords frozen and deep oceans rested, I journey by darkness to exist with the crested.For the years that were wasted have at last taken their tolls; my being longs for serenity, near the chilling, soft souls.Upon the solid, whitish mountains lay my ancestor's lives, their bones of icy marrow, but never frozen their eyes.With them I shall rest, nevermore gracing the skies; my existence is now over, for I am one of the wise.
FearStare clearly into my eyes you pathetic, wormlike child, appreciate my discoveries and poisonings of souls.For I am the crow who judges the placid corn stalks, lined in mindless doses of endless circular walls.Injections of orange terror flow deep into your system, clogging your joyful spirit with a screech of fright.You are falsely guided my child, hence why I'm here to assist you; your end is approaching now, open your eyes to the night.
The BowThe clock has stuck twelve, my departure is now, I must bid you farewell, it's time for my bow.My life is a show, the curtains now shredded, the stage collapsed, and the cast beheaded.The crowd loudly shrieks and roars at my lines, they find them paltry and without "proper rhymes."They cease to find beauty in my works of art, all their eyes see is a grievous heart.And as I utter my final words, all falls silent and my soul swiftly bows.