a world made perpindicular,
means nothing in particular,
if you wish to uncover what's beneath the mask,
first prove to yourself that you truely can
discover the secret of this unholiest of man.
a staining of the skin,
white and bloody crimson,
remembrance of a hero past,
falsities and lies will never last.
the illusionist's dream is one of hidden sorrow,
stuck in a nightmare and won't wake till tomorrow,
turn to the rabbit, the fox and the snake,
release the wonders inside you that ache.
those who fight with words, who use paradoxal retorts,
will they ever see the ringing bells that in their heads contort
the style to the author and the writer to his pen
and a printer printing paper, who is promptly laid to bed
the singing bird, the clouding skies
all living in their beauty without a person to surmise
why one is lesser while two is long
counting down to pointless end
waiting for the creek to bend.
why wonder what is waiting whilst the enemies are congregating,
to be deciding the same fate of those who steal across the way,
an innocence to be ruined upon this fateful day,
a word repeated twice doesn't sound quite the same,
to each his own, and to him his own name.
a world made perpindicular, means nothing in particular,
to a world where nothing ends, this is only where it begins.
Theworstone
you failed me so
redjokerx
really darling, you should take those pills, they'll do you good.
see what wonders they did to me?