Last Tick To Midnight

The moon slowly stops
As the mask cracks and drops
She sits there, without a name
Looking alone, and lost for one to blame
The trees bleed a different color every hour
As the skies lead on a different shower

The clock ticks to midnight, as cars come and go
Just as the people in life do, as seasons rain to snow,
To this hour, she does not care if it was the final hour
Or she was lost without share, or without power
To sleep forever in the bushes or dirt
Under the walking, in a silent concert

As time marches on, the clouds begin to form
The awake hurry on, and begin to conform
She does not budge, sitting on the bench,she does not sway
For she decides to live the moment, and feels she must pay
For all the evil in her thoughts, and everyone else she carries,
For her actions are different, for her personalities, it varies
Just as the moon changes in phases,
Just as some people go in to sudden crazes

Needles start to fall down to the ground,
As it hits her ever changing skin, a beautiful sound
The colors of dark red, paint another story
To something called a really sick glory
A royal red carpet of manipulation,
A dramatic glamorous frustration,
And suddenly her face morphs to another note
To horror, as everyone around her is dead,
She doesn't quite recall her actions, or what she said.

She walks on, through the ever changing trees alone,
Stuck in the park, with the moths eating her last bone
A madness is bred, from the murderous quiet
As her insides revolt, and turn to a endless riot
The clock does not stop for one, for anyone's lives
As much as one can believe, to one, the clock's hands are poisonous knives

This park is her cage that she creates, and the bench is her thoughts
In which she cannot seem to stand upon, in her existence are knots
The reality in that she cannot really leave, and respect her worst enemy,
Her own self is bound by the trees that make life obscure and shaded
Her expression but a silhouette, timeless to a life forever degraded

A true masterpiece of a prison is your own mind
When in while instance one believes everything is labeled and defined,
In reality they walk in an endless room, with a dull, dying, fleeting light
That never was changed by the realization of one's own footprints in sight

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