Poor Little boy.

Which sound lies in those channels of lifeless soul

That picture so opaque standing against the wall,

Talk about that broken switch leading to unsorted energy

Odious was his name for his story was never oyez.

He lies on his pallet with no future pallid,

No precint for his outgrown love is seen

Precocious is his happiness that lead him to all this pain,

Meet a presbyter hear the tales of untold love

Everywhere ruth was found,

Pyre is the end point of all those tears

She was a rector with no mercy for him,

Make me a servitor and i will lavish my life over your feet

Grotesque will be my death for if we coalesce someday

Dilate the word of his death

For now his soul is entailed,

She may enrage her known people

Ensanguine his name under no shrine,

His love was incoercible with no beginning

Inaptitude for her standards; abash him and let him rott in hell

But who knew he was abatering her pain.

Willy are the people last words what he said

Odious are their desires

Patter my no name in your lullaby as i will then fight the fire.

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