Behind his eyes a canvas be,
with painted black epiphanies,
the soulís remorse in tragedy,
to live a constant eulogy.
Such death no childrenís heart should bear
this fate of drowning in despair.
A forest fear his destiny,
this twisted little twig he be.
His love embraced by dark caress,
adorned in shadows fully dressed,
in blackened robes of evil old,
a babyís heart turns icy cold.
He walks among them fully dead,
listening to the nothing said
from filthy tongues and lying lips
a soul once lit in full eclipse.