Aimless tendencies fill her days,
Unknowingly tossing its life away.
She has never been taught the error of her ways:
A blind eye to a blatant decay.
Her slumber follows a star-filled gaze;
Her freckled flower, to no avail, prays.
Wishful thoughts watch the art of action fade.
Blemished beings compose a horrid parade.
Calling out by the hour,
In search of the freckled flowers:
They told me silhouettes lurk within
the shadows composed of our fear.
Calling out by the minute,
Only the freckled flowers can produce
a destructive indulgence so infinite:
They told me tales of terror,
while drawing a cathartic blade.
Calling out by the second,
In the midst of a fatal fantasy,
the freckled flowers possess
a soothing presence:
They told me a vivid end
complements a horrifying existence.
Calling out by the hour.
In search of the freckled flowers:
They told me the cycle ends.