EiraLunatheVulpix

Everyone knows Of the lonely boy Who sang The whistling tunes. Who wasted away All of his days Sitting on The broken stoop. Who'd gather The loveliest of flowers And tore the petals asunder. Contemplating For hours The feelings of another. While his pocket watch Yelled Tick and tock, Cheering on The faint church bell's knock Pounding through The rusted locks He heard the birds Begin to whisper and mock . . . In rhymes and rhythms That he understood not. Struggling, As the new tune played. Silently sobbing As his message bayed From his throat Onto the ground. Out of control, It did resound. The people heard Of his newfound cries And the