Shocking ends,
and brand new lies,
sit behind,
covered eyes.

Little tips,
and discolored lips,
strangely there,
in a discreet air.

Ticking clocks,
and mismatched socks,
unique ideas,
wrapped in tears.

Shaking hands,
and disheveled strands,
of long thin hair,
you're without an heir.

Strangled air,
and you're without a care,
that this lack of support,
is all you'll report.

And when you die,
you'll hear a lullaby,
of when lives tend,
to reach a shocking end.