Dressed like a madman with a pixie hat,
crouching before the prey untaken,
the eyes dance like those of a cat,
the ignoble intentions not mistaken.
Doom is the dress of damnation,
spinning in it's evaporizing gale.
Her childish faith has become her salvation,
as her flesh grows life-less and pale.
Torn is the neck from the shoulder up,
his smile still brimming with glee,
there he sits, content with his cup,
with crossed legs a the rotting tree.