Cold Creature woncha cheer!

At birth winners and losers don't matter.

in death winners and losers lie abreast...

you came to life aloud with a sweet sob,

your hands cupping an array of rainbows.

you held your mother's bosom and a

lineage dating back to Eve thus affixed.

like a bulbous floweret you blossomed.

now your eyes have slashed and hacked

things once gold; molested rudely by pain.

you grovel clawing your face, two mirrors 

have cracked in the wake of your burdens.

there's a long brook of tears flowing between

black banks of molten mascara at the corners 

of your eyes; cold creature woncha cheer!

heard your laden voice bid your own death, 

your soft orison at the altar suffused the pews.

all monks grew pale, what a scourge to bear!

awful trumpeting thoughts of wrecking passion,

your face always wet like dew on the aeridinae,

applied rouge to your anguish, yet all the more

cracks display in your woebegone countenance.

at birth winners and losers don't matter

in death winners and losers lie abreast...

spring out of this burdened flesh, you can.

bring back your laughter, start a fresh slate.

reach out your hand; supposing your pain

is a battle indeed worth winning. time is at 

hand to restore the soul to its former purity.