By Swanna Mearde
Sorrowfully sleeping sound,
the movies of the mind will tell,
a mob of creatures all around,
insidious, hideous, straight from hell.
A cradle sways him in the light,
a lullaby like marmalade,
his eyes are icy, cold and bright,
contracted, shivering, afraid.
Coals of fear were set to flame,
Anger burning strong, and then,
Nobody put him to blame,
for the sharp steel lost within.
Razors, Shavers, Hatchets, Blades,
Slicers, Dicers. Thick and thin,
He ought to sought for a raid,
Salt drops dripping from their chins.
Ruby jelly, Scarlet jam,
Sweet and warm, it seeps and spills,
Recovering from fault of man,
Say fair well and write your wills.
Something evil in this life,
Pray he's better in his next,
pop the lid using your knife,
Secrete sweetness from their necks.
Feeling hungry, craving more,
Gather lots on which to feast,
Chaos making knuckles sore,
He gave much to feed the beast.
Knowing he'll run out of time,
Knowing that it's finally done,
He raised his knife to the sky,
Putting down the beast of blood run.
