Rusty eyes and withered souls,
yet those feigned smiles;
Walking corpses, with a mania
for thine anguish,
yet craving for compassion from thee;
Such is the audacity of these humans.

Cold nights, bleaky roads,
and this endless rain of catastrophe;
Casket makers, lingering exhausted
on the streets,
the streets, that are are full of houses;
Houses, that are no homes.

With gleeful heart and shiny eyes,
thine first cry hovers;
Relished by thy folks, within
these walls of Eden,
outside of whose gate, awaits a brothel;
The brothel, where devil sold his soul
and became human.

© thewordplayer