Our mortal souls flew downstairs
and the river sings, and the river sings,
rushing to the forest’s veins;
they’re humming, crying, hoping
for a day of absolute thrill                                                           ­                     

My ankles broke in a chimera;
I reach for you in one flying umbrella
Rise in the sky, the sweetest day
Despite the day of promised storm,
your flashing eyes still glow; describe the rainbow

And that’s why I never stop to
pray for the highest Lord to give you
an amazing point of view, of
pretty roads, bees of the flowers
inside the castle of your dearly
enchanter

They see it.
Oh, how they see it so quickly:
an open door of what's closed.
They do not know what's in there.
Do they take a peek?
Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
No, they don't.
The emptiness is killing, they say;
the air is poisoned with apathy,
cynicism,
breath of bitter lungs.
Something is not healthy there.
Someone is sick.
But what is?
How can something be stated as sick
when they do not even see what's inside?
Based on instinct, they say.
A precaution of what must not be known.

Then off they go,
leaving the open door
once again locked.

There was once a parade:
a stage of pride, lies, strings attached.
Strange. Strange as it seemed.
And there was once a lad;
a little man who stood for his hatred,
his crumbled dreams all shattered;
a spider that crunched its victims,
never scared of the eyes of the grim.

There was once a parade:
a nice, mesmerizing flash of masquerade
where all you could see was nothing
but the face of a buried evil,
remaining still in the heart of a little boy;
smashing, scratching all over his door.

But never once did he dare
to step aside and share
all the little things the evil had sworn
to get a bite, a taste, a little part of his own.

O’dear little boy, little, little boy.
It was never his to toy
with all the malicious curses and black mirrors,
the malevolent hearts with dirtiest cores.

And so they crushed him whole,
the ***** skanks and their dolls,
puppets that were once his to call;
smashed him, scratched him, tore him,
until his eyes was no more recognized for its black beam.

They said,
"Pour your words into art
of a nice, meaningful reading;
make some good out of your broken heart
in the act of exclusive healing.
One can be favored a masterpiece
while one is a mere *******.
One can reach the advanced remedy
of forgetting what used to be
while one can only regret
everything that should've been kept unsaid."

But it is not true what they said.
Words cannot easily be poured,
sweetened with additional flavor of phrases,
sentences,
paragraphs
of one's sick, desperate, brutal dysphoria.
What if the words rebel?
What if the mind's not able?
What if everything one keeps inside
is only meant to be put in the dark?

They said words are as powerful as a weapon,
but it is not if one does not know how to play the game.