|Knives dry with weaker souls.|
Fliers of faces and pacing yet to be seen.
Though now seems certain.
That misery and monsters meet,
within fine marbled meat.
Delicate flowers sprout from the concrete.
Picked and plucked gently for the bouquet.
The offbeat sing along.
The damage that's dealt always needed to be done,
not to mention the malice that brings it to life with what fun.
A seat with insomnia.
Bring it to life.
Of yawning and yelling with screams of what not yet done.
Bring it with strife.
The birthplace of misery was one with the wish to stay in bed,
one day the drowsy lazararus' wish came to ahead.
We're all dead.