Lost in face of the embrace of a clockwork race, gone but empty their hearts have lost pace. Too few are you, only to do a membrane of glue, stuck onto you the faceless are faced onto you. Empty and due their time is few, caress the beauty of death, upon the lives of the dead gone blue. How hollow are their eyes lost in the lies, of this surmise, why can't we all die and be gone in a blink of an eye. How the red roses bloom to assume the blood of doom, flowing from my hands it spans across the counter like sand. How weak and heavy my eyes droop and loop around the room as I stoop, crashing and bashing my smearing hands lashing. The blood splatters is like a curtain that falls onto the walls, and drips as I press my lips, only to smell my loneliness is in the mist of this blood wisp. What matted hair drenched in blood everywhere, moist and soft saturated like cloth, tendrils curled like springs in a box. Why do my knees dip as I slip my senses loose grip, on this lip of reality holding me into immortality, I'll only die ever so quick. Slap goes my cheek against the hard tile peak, how my body slumps in defeat, the blood running and drooling only to be pooling. How my heart races is linked to this clock mason, set in stone is the tone of my death I own to life alone.