Oh how solemn the solace of the once sanguine gollem. Head held high in the hands of the fiend. Agape in one eye and the rosy left cheek. When push comes to shove a little bruising never stopped sleep.
To the closet, it goes forgotten and lost. Along with the entrails of the little puppets tossed. Loved? how could they when they're so battered?
The knaw of hunger the fear of sleep. The freedom once possessed was shut before their eyes. The despair of the darkness crept in and filled every pore till the toys they once were seemed desolate shells of the morose existence they had embraced.
Unable to save their comrades as the count piled up. They gave down the battle and raised their cup. To tomorrow they toasted and tomorrow came and went. just another day to rent.
Their courage amassed like the snowfall in summer. The fires in their hearts slowly flickered dumber. Rust soaked in and batteries died. The forgotten had become a graveyard.
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Spots
ПоэзияThe story of my life in the words I can express and for the moments I can't seem to speak.
