Death blindfolds Its weakest target before It strikes efficiently.
When the gaze can be met without knowledge,
Five senses complete are heightened in an explosive state.
Their ears tick and shatter at the sound of their own helplessness,
Tumbling from their newly rented lips.
The taste of blood becomes evident upon their tongue.
Their feelers reach peak for safety,
But can only grasp thin oxygen.
The smell of It’s cologne chokes their lungs before Its grand attack.
It, the Grim Reaper;
The blindfold is removed from the target.
The command is uttered.
Consuming black is introduced as the new light entirely.
Death draws the dying’s ending breath for decorated delight.

It’s not that I want to be in a box,
It’s about escaping the clocks.
Escaping the constant ticking of time and loss surrounding me.
However wide the universe may be,
I still feel everything catching up with me.
Every element of the earth becoming too much to bare,
I simply sit and stare as time begins to shorten.
But it’s not that I want to be in a box.
In a box, I will miss the scent of flowers and gentle knocks upon the wood of the docks.
Creativity will be lost to the soil,
Imagination bleeding away from the mind within the lifeless.
I long for endless deadlines.
I long for thoughts that carry the light of the stars and not the weight of the moon.
It’s not that I want to be in a box,
It’s about escaping the clocks.

When assigned to nature you must take care of your section. With the top 1% of the top 1% not caring for their section orderly, we must take a stand as bearers of gifts.
Introducing Flower Girl, her mark - bluebells delicately dancing around her eyelids; solution of hydration loosely hanging from her eyelashes. Protector of the bluebells.
Spring, Summer... a jolly state following suit as she beams to the sun above, the coloured flowers upon her skin basking in the energy radiated.
Autumn, Winter... the sun doesn’t appear as often, energy is lost and not just for the bluebell companions. Flower Girl doesn’t reach towards the slithers of sunlight anymore. Blue turns to brown, happiness turns to hopelessness. Solution of hydration sacrificed to the angry clouds and viciously spat back out against the soil.
Introducing River Boy, his mark - fresh, cold fingertips, water droplets as clear as glass stored within his veins. Protector of water, protector of Flower Girl.
A brisk touch to her cheek, their eyes meet. Brown turns to blue, hopelessness turns to happiness. Solution of hydration replaced upon her eyelashes, preserved water finally fulfilling its purpose.
When assigned to nature you must take care of your section. A section for a section, an act of caring kindness for a revived life. Bluebells may only bloom with the helping of water.

My home is not a physical place,
My home is a person that I chase.
In you I trust,
With you I feel comfortable,
With you vulnerability doesn’t exist.
If home is where the heart may be,
then in your hands my heart is placed.

A twitch of my head and the dead will crawl.
The dead will crawl with a scratching so intense they will leave marks upon my mind.
With the marks hard to remove, I twitch my head once more and awake the dead’s ancestors.
One by one they eat the flesh of the living within me, every aspect of life and trace of goodwill never evident after their presence.
The eyes of the dead so dark, my own eyes swell with the blackness of every mark they have ever left.
With one final twitch of my head I am consumed; under the power of the dead that are now living within me.
No wrong doings were made on my behalf yet the dead take over and find solace within the living thoughts I once possessed.