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Blinded eyes weep in secret rooms and thoughts on puppet strings dance to the madness tune heard in the wail of sirens perched far above a collection of dying souls; Their screams echo and ring through the corridors of time as bullets play god and open wounds pain where scars won't form. Unborn descendants plead for mercy as terror infects their veins and hearts are bathed in cold light from the devil's own blood thirsty eyes. Stories forfeit hope for truth as history is scrawled in tortured whispers and etched in a world's concience with a million burning finger tips
Little Girl
pkdark added this comment 2010-05-19 13:16:34-05:00
Did you make this poem? I quite like it.
pkdark added this comment 2010-05-19 13:16:34-05:00
Did you make this poem? I quite like it.