Trimming lives like you would fingernails.
No hesitation is entailed.
Cutting deep and shrugging long.
A line of thinking doused in wrong.
But never do thoughts of forgiveness rise.
Spread far and wide is how you despise.
Venom soaked rag to silence a mass.
To the throat will be delivered a killing slash.
Yet in better days you chose to sing.
From beauty you did always bring;
A note of passion and a mountain of purity.
All of which you condemned to obscurity.
Filing hearts like you smooth skin.
This is your only way to win.
Juxtapose used to mask the crimes.
Surround the corpses with fresh limes.
Then burn the evidence to dust.
No soul do you wish to trust.
And so the slaughter rumbles on.
One day soon all life will be dead and gone.
Yet in better days you chose to sing.
From beauty you did always bring;
A note of passion and a mountain of purity.
All of which you condemned to obscurity.
Twist a tale wrought in hallowed endless dread.
What lies in the swamp is but your eternal bed.
Headless entropy you wield as a voice.
Betraying every soul by taking their choice.
Only to wind them in reeds and cast them to the pit.
Your every fibre is a sabotage culprit.
Yet in better days you chose to sing.
From beauty you did always bring;
A note of passion and a mountain of purity.
All of which you condemned to obscurity.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 