Name: Trixie

Title: [Poem] Playground of The Dead (non-rhyming)

Part: 1/1

Series: Original

Categories: Poem, Sick+Twisted

Subcategory: Original

Rating: PG-15

Pairings: None

Warnings: Dark, graphic, death, twisted.

E-mail: goldynangyl@yahoo.com

Site: N/A

Diclaimer: Playground of the Dead is my own property.

Playground of the Dead Series

I.

Blood-red water shoots

From the broken down sprinkler

In the insane child's bedroom.

Lonely, she sits and watches

the bright colors shimmer like tears.

Shadows flutter along her

Hollow-framed face,

Showing a wicked smile of bone.

A cast of light falls upon

Her hidden complexion,

Only to reveal a black oblivion.

Playground of the Dead.

II.

In the playground of the dead,

The little girl plays with knives

Instead of lifeless dolls.

The fountain of blood sputters

As she gazes upon it.

A cold smile forms upon her face

As she slowly twists the sharp blade

Into a steel skull.

Placing it upon the void of her visage,

She stalks the shadows of death.

Her hand cups a pool of crimson petals,

And she sips the delicate doom.

Her reflection is caught along the dim light;

Reality shudders as that glimpse bares

The evilness of humanity

Within the souls of innocence.

III.

A bitter road

Of loneliness

Winds its way

Along the realm of despair.

The little girl skips

Happily among the

Blackened bricks of bone,

Carrying a basket of

Wilting roses.

In the horizon,

The house of

Forbidden hope

Lies in open vulnerability.

A sea of ravens

Fly straight toward

The little girl's heart,

Yet quickly flee

When they find nothing.

She solemnly kneels

At the eternally closed door

Of the lonely house,

And places the basket on the porch.

She whispers,

Ever so silently,

"Happy birthday, my soul."

IV.

Shadows consume

The little girl's heart

Before she was ever

Truly innocent.

Through dead eyes,

The girl waits

For her turn to play.

But that hopeful chance

Is snatched away

By the ones with

Bitter laughter.

So she sits in the corner

Of broken depression

Crying crimson tears.

Black ideas fill her empty soul

And she creates

An ominous horror...

Reality.

Epilogue

A pen writes upon

White sheets of the murdered

With black infinite ink,

As our blood, crimson and thick,

Embeds itself into

The pages of innocence.

Guilt, agony, hurt, and hate

Forever battle with

Love, bliss, and harmony.

The inevitable doom

Of scarring anger and jealousy

Creates the flames of

Irony's massacre.

The history of our faults

Carved into stone

And eternally haunts our souls.

Playground of the Dead.