Stricken, Oh-so poor,
By-pass reason for the sake of your desires
pestilence upon the grave of loneliness
showing all your past transgressions.
Serviced needs, boating cold.
You walk across that threshold,
you walk and enter the dark revision.
Eyes like rose petals painting the quite earth,
soil born of heavens curse,
the tricks of heart, mind, and soul
fuse to become one remote voice,
one remote mistake of graves built over ice,
grant the devil morning flowers,
paint the isles of green red again,
bathe in blood refused to cleanse,
and milk, milk that white pure land of its
Stricken Oh-so poor,
heated in the middle of the night,
pouring rain down upon that bed,
where sin ebbs away your children’s breath.
Bleed upon all that was, fearful child
singing that old pitiful song.
Hatred brewing under cold stares,
and you awake to the idea of selfishness,
doing all to make-create-the idea of happiness.
Stricken! Oh-so very so very poor.
Love is knocking, with a familiar face, on your door.
Your memory fails you, You fail to remember.
Seeing her face disgusted-retraced-the ideas he left behind.
Molted flesh upon the gates of her innocence,
Hatred melding with that perfuse liquid drowning all the more.
Bleed, yes he Bled across the floor.
Welcome, Welcome, you keep asking for more.