The ticking of the clock,
rusty and antique,
as though it snaps it's tongue with
every passing second
and torments my everwaiting mind.

Paint on your canvas,
use my skin
and decorate it with charcoal
and pastels.

Make me beautiful.

A miniscule slit in my wrist,
a sufficient amount for just a
teardrop of blood
to fall on the parchment
as I sign a blood-binding bond
in crimson ink.

The night, silent and obscure.
2:56 ; witching hour was near.
My mind wasn't sure,
and a dragging pierced my ears.
My mother,
my father,
dragged by a stickly, monstrous figure.
It placed them in my room, creating
a masterpiece.
On the wall, he used their blood
to write a message.
As it hid under my bed,
my eyes twitched open
to read the horrific message on the wall.

"I know you're awake."

Peter Pan,
he never could die.
He could never grow old,
yet his wisdom was bright.
He took children on a journey,
to Neverland, they say.
But where would it be, if not on a map?
Where would they go, away?
Well, you see,
it's not like the tale.
They didn't sing on a grand boat,
raising a sail.
Peter Pan would reap the souls
of late children
who died to soon.
He couldn't let them stay,
he wouldn't let them brood.
The Robin Hood
of the reapers, he was.
To bring children through the gates of the Heavens,
where they wouldn't age,
it was his only cause.

The pines stood tall on the alpines,
the snow sat heavily, splendidly,
on the prickly branches
or the top of the mountains.