Tyrant624

Won’t you buy her nick-nacks, To help her on her way, She does need the money so, Will your mind not be compelled to sway? Oh poor Little Eliza she does her best, Her handicrafts aren’t  the greatest, but they’re cheap and full of love. suitable for any occasion, charms and accessories for every situation, So please won’t you drop a coin For sweet little Eliza, That you might see her again next winter, With more than hunger to her name.

With withered talons we tear at the sky In a vain attenpt to break the lie Of a world without light that we can see with our eyes, So that we may serve as witness and testify That this illusion of darkness’s time is nigh , Revealing the sun that we’ve been denied

Who are you that linger so, On the cusp of tragedy and joy, A mark upon the map of madness, Forever desiring shards of happiness. Omens of a terrible journey, that has you walk eternal, with no ending you can find, For you are running endless shifting circles, in the chaos of your broken mind.

I am a wide-eyed sort of guy, Pondering my purpose in life with a wince and a sigh, I can’t help but wonder if all that I am is nothing more than, a dream, a memory, Or a well crafted lie. Thoughts on the matter of existence are full of dismay, The Winds of Fate have dictated the path, I guess I just need to follow it’s sway.

Murky days, full of murky people, and their murky ways, Wet and cold is the mood, when all the words that they say, are as bitter as rain, on a miserable day, In the lonely month of may.

Dance to the beat of a thousand steps, Marching five by five, The dust of the ground, whirls around like the winds of a coming storm, In there breath lingers the stench of death , As their hands are stained in blood. Misery and Barbarity are the medals they proudly wear, Polished to an unearthly shine, Their bodies serve their masters will, But their wounded and weary souls do always cry, To break from their earthly vessels to reach the sky, And await a sign, as those same earthly vessels line their shores in Boxes of oak and pine.

praised is the job of the sandal maker who is often never seen, He crafts the wood that protects our feet from the dirt,filth and rocks, Many a great man has walked a stride on sweat of his brow, But never have they once thanked him, Not with praise,coin or sow.

What if life was a whirling dervish Picking up everything we do and say Spiralling it out of control Til all were left with is broken remnants Passing it on to our descendants Reminding them that we couldn’t stop it Even if we had the will.

Let the wanderer cast the first stone, For they are whole, They are a stranger to violence, this visitor of ours, When the stone cracks the skull And the first crimson drops, We shall name them our own. Innocent child who has strayed the brighter path, You have lost your purity with this act, For Thy name is Murderer, Stealer of Life.