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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Hell is just a place, make it your own creation.

Submitted: March 28, 2008

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Submitted: March 28, 2008



As it's short, I see it so.

Life is worthless. Let's see it go.

Out the door, out the window.

Fly and be free through the Graveyard Show.

See the names.

The graceful names.

The dancing letters of the graceful names.

The pretty, undead flowers who take the blame.

For realizing the suffer.

All who suffer among the stones, those relentless, precious stones.

Hiding, protecting, those scarce sacred bones.

They dance between graves.

Whisper between lines.

Seek for new contestants to join their gathering under blinds.

I'll take you to a place only those who "are" know about.

It's a heavy, down-under sancuary.

Deep, dark, much better to be un-left out.

"Believe me Victin, You're much better left down under."

As said to you by this Sanctum Owner.

"All your life above ground is blunder.

Pure tragedy amongst the best.

Hallo to you, howl to the moon.

No creature will call back.

You're under direct harpoon."

Calls the Partner from his scout.

The journey in the Sancuary continues on.

Force fed the images to the innocent eyes.

:ed by fate unable to escape upon.

The residents among the paved way look unto you as an escape pod.

So much do they embed their faces into your brain.

They cahnt in your ears "Fraud!"

They, beneath the clothes and fake skin, beneath the unrealistic mind.

they know just how to chip at you; it only takes time.

Onward as you take your tour, you discover the roots embedded within.

To scrape away at life's existance and make death win.

Death is the face of innocence and truth.

You scamper upon a trail upward forth.

The flowers from her dear, kind soul, burn at the flame of life's eyes, scorched.

You turn at the sight, unable to capture the picture, though you doubt what you have to believe.

Your Guide, the slave-driver, "Move on!"

Unable to have the words even conceived.

You stumble over a twig and stone.

Reading the words upon the stone.

Those flawless words engraved in stone.

The stone, protecting the undiscovered bones.

Relentless are the flowers grown.

The laughs and snickers purely heard.

Able to scowl and be denounced, nothing to them is absurd.

As you move, the Keeper throws you a specimen; a gate key as you look.

Wondering what this could mean, he tosses you a book.

"Open it," says the Master.

Turning the key within the bind,

You sink into a trance,

A pure state of mind.

As you awake, you find yourself alive at the tombs.

Rubbing your tired, encrusted eyelids, opening them to see,

The words "The Sanctum Awaits for Those who 'are' to Join Once More."

And you know that it is meant to be.

You now are a guide, a looker-on.

So walking home, you fall.

Along side you is a twig, a sound is heard, a yell or call.

As they whisper between graces, dance between lines,

You seek new contestants to join under the blinds.

To notice the stones.

The precious, gracious stones.

The flawless, engraved letters upon the stones.

Who protect the scarce, sacred bones.

© Copyright 2018 TatyanaPsychoticTaciturn. All rights reserved.

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