![]() The Littlest Orphan: The One Who's FallenA Poem by Brenden Bow![]() When sorrowful eyes turn to lies, and all her hearts cease to die, in the Deeper's South, the sun shall naught rise.![]()
Manipulate a way into a life, cut up a heart. It's raw; take a bite.
Send a messenger to announce world's end, because it once opened at its seams. Reave the sleaze, and tease with a please; seize, contain and halt, the disease spreading unto the trees. Littlest Orphan running in the breeze, sob, cry, and fear what you'll never see - everything -, for all is dying. Orphan fears lying without a mother, without a father, without a backbone; she fears sighing while so, so alone. Littlest Orphan, why fall to your knees when the Angel of War's hearts bleed? Kid, back up, none of this is healthy. Somewhere's a life to live, a person to be. Little one, you're scary, oh, so scary, oh. The Littlest Orphan is scared, but not very though. When life rends to and fro, one finds themselves a child, a child with no evil to know. It's almost obvious, in a way, so obvious the child could moan and say, "Cliche, cliche." When eyes well up with blues-singing fire, and culture is struck with flagrant, vapid desires, don't look unto Earth, for they'll collapse right after their spectacular births. When cyanide becomes a treat, and the mold-bleached souls are never left clean and neat, War will draw nigh to a close, and he will then run. War exhales, reheating the sun. War soothes, heals; oh, well done. Little girl, little girl, they begged you not to fall down, 'cause Hell-spawn should never, ever touch hallowed, salted zero ground.
© 2012 Brenden Bow |
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Added on June 28, 2012 Last Updated on June 28, 2012 AuthorBrenden BowTXAboutI've been writing for nine years. It's a solitary art, writing; seclusion works wonders for one's evolution as a writer. I enjoy secluding myself for days, sometimes weeks, with my work. more..Writing
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