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What He Lost, Is Always Gone

Exquisite lasses,
but that passes.
Kindhearted angels,
that never seem to entangle.
An the thrill-seekers,
that are exposed to the reaper.
We all hold hands,
and life goes on.
What about the background?
When the ropes are loosened,
and we find our place,
do they continue to hesitate?
A psychotic child,
who's been defiled.
Darker, an darker the lights dim.
Faster, faster do the tears fill in?
Whats missing, what would've been?
They find yesterday,
caged in tomorrow.
Mother's in jail,
Brother's dead,
Father left,
Sister's, hmm well enough said.
His friends,
tried everything.
Plus therapy,
but words to him are like ecstasy.
The healers,
mend his body.
But only he himself,
can mend the mind.
Every night,
he clutters himself to sleep.
While a thunderstorm diminishes,
the shouting ends,
but rain is still on the ground.
Every morning,
he writes in a diary,
with a crucifix,
and a pentagram.
Neither God,
nor the Devil,
wanted a Hansel,
without a catalyst like Gretel.
He brings back,
the final straw,
before the farmer starves.
He carves,
with blood running down.
“The child,
is but a sacrifice,
in the rite,
aghast.”



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