Where did it go wrong?
The synapse snapped, but at what time?
At what time did he think of blood and not chocolate?
At what point did he dream of killing and not saving the world from the evil force?
When did the taste of blood override the taste of sugar?
What point in time did he leave childhood and become a maniac?
From eleven to thirty it seems,
Nineteen years lost to history.
No one ever asked what happened.
No one ever tried to help.
No one cared.
No one.
It sure feels like I'm thirty.
Staring off to space he dreams of a murder.
Drifting off to sleep he contemplates assassination.
...
...
...Dreaming of cupids workings he is lain to rest.
His gilded heart slain by a love guided missile.
When it beats it thinks of the lovely intruder,
And the madness kneels down before thee.
Never again shall he have another blood soaked thought.
Never again will he dream up premeditated murder.
Nor will the red rivers flow before his feet.
He is tame now and is leashed by love.
The owner as beautiful as the rising day.
As marvelous as the setting of the morrow.
No other compares to her splendorous ways.
She is ruler of all that I am,
This is for her.
 Father Fluff · Wed Mar 19, 2008 @ 07:00am · 0 Comments |
