The marks of the dead were placed on the backs of their necks,
and swallowed whole by the universe they were.
The rain of acid tortured their skin, unbeknownst by others.
Only they were to feel,
were to endure the wrath of the unknown.
Standing knee deep in winter water as ice forms,
one could only hope for the purest of deaths.
And to be kept as one whole,
for one's beauty to be exquisitely divine even at ones death.
The world is, however, not one in their favor.
Not one to tidy up all the mistakes and lay a yellow brick road.
No, may there fates be tied together,
and may they free themselves of harm.