A riot in a twisted frame,
a blundering essence does remain.
Halt there upon the oaken door,
Mindless feelings falling through the floor.
Shout to the nothing, and beat down the vines,
Clawing fingertips against the countless binds.
Salted streams of clarity escape the battered eyes,
Ribs enclosed in seamless rivets, break out in wretched cries.
Toiling through the darkest bleak; bone and flesh are torn apart
The clamoring of the chains and iron, beat down upon the heart.
Moreover the screeching ravens, the shredded love has past
For who could ever love this soul, and make it truly last?
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