Those little words inside, carved upon the silky desires of men
A passion without reason or will, ensuing in all that is within
I trust those words to be of my use
As this sword of cravings and atrocity weeps calmly in its sheath
But to whom do I revoke these thoughts to?
Below the deuce of wrecked livings and stories spun
Or the teeth of the beast that is me
Is this art? Or just a disease without a sound
Condemned for a moment
Frozen but forever
A breathable heart, docked on its throne
With a thorn in its side, pulling these bellows away
A silent chime from the death bell miles away
Where the ill-fated cries faithfully along
And where were you, all this while?
Asleep.
-randomly composed
I personally believe.. 