Crudely Written Blood

Can you hear those lost children, weeping to the sound of falling rain?

They cry, but not because of purpose, rather it is the only thing they know,

To be held is only a sacrifice of something ironic, clinging to that last ounce of realism as it slips away to a fond memory, their fond memories with a crowd gathered among a dreary, black circumstance,

Can you see those lost toys among the attic of a meandering shadow?

They’re broken, but not from use, rather negligence of something they trusted,

To be seen and displayed like trophies is a sadistic privilege, falling to that savory arrogance of a dream,

They walk along their own footsteps, indentions of their crime as children, ignorant innocence that only abided by something playful,

Do you believe those shapes that wander like mindless drones across the plane of purgatorial injustice?

They’re forgotten among the pages that wrote their conclusion, a tome gathering dust in the tears of the questioning guidance,

We ask more with anger as each slip away to nothing more than a shadow at our feet, treading with us on that guilt crusade we try to honor, but can’t quite get past with our selfish vengeance,

They watch with hollow, quivering eyes that bleed something more than we could ever comprehend...

Can you believe it? Or do you want to choose to believe that they are there?

End.