Who Was It?

The wonder in a little child's eyes

Not to be replaced by anything

Lost in a swirling oblivion of adulthood

and adultery...

in a mystifying silence

brought unto thee by thoust weeping flower

crying delicate drops of sweet red blood.

A stricken look of angst and pain

for what once was

a ghastly metaphor

serving no purpose besides its own.

Gleaning in the hollow light

Mocking those who glimpse a fright

A dull, endless, pitch dark

moaning night

which loathes in boasting glory.

For it can loathe in peace.

Nonest thou other

permitted by the aquitted

to be so gleeful in their putrifying rave

against all that is good

against all that should.

So in the bitter onceover allowed by the nocturnal smothering

a new moth is born



and cowardly.

A chip off the old block

A living replica of the ghost's of mother's past

A terrifying ambiance

an aura not to be faltered within 

the ever scabbing


grey matter dream

a sin in soul does gleam

a packrat trades a spleen

for the sinning soulful gleam.

But it is far from clean

and the pakcrat has no spleen.

So the night has right to glean

and boast

a cunning


morose toast.

A last meal


with slight distaste

The monotony weeps 

a lull.

Tears of joy

extinguishing the flames in heaven

but the ones in the source

the hell from which they ascend

are simply apt to fend

there are many more victories to be had

contrary to the glad...

The sorrow

in the


The rejoicing

of the mad

in the pointless


that man has put forth for itself.

Like chocolates on a shelf.

They are delicious while they're


But once times change,

The date is past

the taste is strange

the horrid strain

the acid rain

of past mistakes

The chocolate lays

dustier by the day

A rancid trace

the rotten


within the box



the times have changed

but the chocolate remains the same...


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