With darkened beauty the cold heavens shine
Under moonlight, where the hideous shadows dine
Feeding on the crevices of our reddish, worn throats
As winds wail endlessly with their shrieks of icy notes
Sharpened flakes and tiny crystals slowly do fall
Accounting for the pale mounds of snow piled tall
The glassy dust glistens and slithers over the street
Whisping up swiftly and freezing our feet
The incredulous dawn will prove to them this day
That we may not be included but we are never afraid
Hearing suicide flow easily over our last breath
Too many sunless hours shall end us in death
A note in each hand like toe-tags pre-written
Sketched in black blood since we’ve already been stricken
Our positions are soon taken, with noose tight in hand
We hang from the rafters to make our last stand
Those who will find us shall act accordingly
To what they’ve been programmed, to what they should be
“If you understand our grief, you’ll certainly come along.”
Never willing to die, they are tortured, yet strong
Our last nocturnal pulse brings us to white lights –
“An ironic fate, isn’t it? to escape the winter nights?”
Yet it is pleasing to us all, who now writhe under earth
And our souls will soon hunger for a gruesome rebirth
Unfinished were our lives, for we did not see the purpose
And how foolish an act would be, to demand a new service?
Our mercy has vanished and the life is long dried
To see ourselves dead can only bring pride
Is this the devout meaning for a famished soul fed?
To watch honest people become filled with such dread?
“Sickening it is to see these famlilies perceive the pain…
But, oh, how we would surely love to see it again!”
And in their bitter thoughts they will feel sympathy
Proving to them what we proved to be
Our curse now spreads down into the minds of our kin
Touching only those who can walk with our sin
Suddenly, our days of Hell are changed, indeed, within us
And those who we ran frm come running without trust
“They want to embrace our love of their hate!
How slow-witted they are to seek redemption so late…”
“What now?” a coward asks, both emotionless and bold
“Come with me.” the angel says, his lies growing old
“Leave me be!”, she replies, “Your filth is not for I…
For my soul had made me live only to let my body die…”
Then, nights of winter arise in each of their minds
As they recall the sorrow brought on by the times
So they walk seperate ways, seen no more, until
The angel tires of his game and finds a mortal’s mind to kill
The evening’s new moon then passes softly overhead
Its ruthless eye staring down upon the predictable dead
A morning sun finally rises and brightens grey skies
Shining warmth over hard bodies, reflecting off stone eyes
These freed puppets, these shells, hang frosted, uncaring
With observers flocked ’round, too shocked to start bearing
Why did these poor kids run from the truth of life?
Their reasons are now silent, complete with an obsessive strife
And we, the suicidal, yes, us demented young teens
Dry peacefully with honor in our group of thirteen
At last we can see and know what lies beyond;
“Perhaps we were impatient with what we should have been fond…?”
Whatever greed for death we had has now been fulfilled
Even in this small gathering our spirits have been distilled
From the Astral Plane we can see from where we have fled
Our wishes have been granted, to understand why we bled
Now we all live in a level of Hell meant just for us
Redeeming ourselves to gain Heaven’s intellectual dust
“What was the real point?” we all ask from time to time
“There was no rational fact, no certain type of crime…”
Then, why, of all things, would one break away from the living?
Were we in need of attention? With whom were we kidding?
It was a passion too grand to control over time
For depression’s bell tolled louder than our heart’s petty chime