In the land of the existence, we crossed paths.
In the realm of reality, we swapped crafts.
In this moment we discovered what, being human was meant to be.
Silly little girl, lining her bed with sheets.
Silly little boy, lining his beds with seeds.
Silly little girl, defining her brows for the week
Silly little boy, defining his manhood from the weak.
In the ordered land of the ominous, we walk in a line
The line is drawn with chalk
The line riddled with distraught
Fear resurrecting hurt, agony and pain; all the best friends for a stain.
Quaver-scented finger tips, ice-cold breaded winter hearts
Mother and Father were the town butchers, but what they killed was a fragment of his part.
His being was not important, but the essence of it was.
If he stuck around longer, they would have scented him in desire
Wrapped him in expectations, excitement and aspire.
Last but not least, if he put them to shame. His father would bring the oil and the mother; a flame.
Shambolic Behaviour 