The Children’s Requiem

"I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.

I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam."

Ssshh. Listen to the voice of children. Their harmonious voice glistens, with a soul it christens. Slow and lilting initially, it's all but purity, blissfully. Continually, they sing in unity, carefree and joyously. Periodically a giggle sounds here and there, with a certain flair that ensnares. A few in count, their numbers steadily amount. From one to another, a little sister joins a little brother. They prance and dance, advancing in expanse. Their ambiance gradually relinquishes it's innocence, becoming a dissonance, while hinting imminence.

"And I know it's true,

that visions are seldom all they seem."

Round and round they go, with a haunting flow that acts as a cameo. Buried beneath a fine layer of song, the slayer surfaces before long. It emerges from depths, with the breathes that seep from serpentine mouths. Slowly, as it does so, a daunting atmosphere will grow, churning and turning, burning with a smoky smolder. The beholder, owner, and source of molten heat, is the growing fleet of elite yet petite deceit. Once pristine little children, now scorching and torching, from the inside out. The solar wisps that crackle about, spout out in route to the poor girl(boy) scout. Causing a reflection reaction, the miasma that infects children acts as plasma, charging and roaring, as it torches and scorches what may soon be corpses. It's a steady flow, subliminal blow after blow. Sanity slips from the body, along with humanity and vitality.

"But if I know you, I know what you'll do.."

Whirling and twirling, skipping and ripping, their hellish sunder of skin and essence is a plunder. Friction, seemingly steaming from the teaming of scheming demons, gives birth to the mirth of a detrimental girth. One of which causes the mind to itch and glitch at a heightening pitch. As rich as it is, it's hardly reached it's limit. One would pray that it would just skim it, or trim it. Prayers go unanswered, their efforts neigh. This is the day they pay and become prey, fallen at the gateway of a female Monet.