The Rose Game
Fallen leaves are falling faster in the sunlit moon of gray.
Screaming holds the dark disaster from a silence we call day.
In the twilight ridden evening, when the black is yet to fall.
Children find their hearts believing that the quiet isn’t all.
Even when the echoed crying fades at last from where you stand.
In the valley something dying screeches out its last demand.
Shake behind your hopeful smiling, cry behind your sparkling eyes.
Every day the bones are piling higher in the violent skies.
If the arc of stars is hidden and the clouds come wash the light.
If the crescent stays forbidden and the orb can watch the night.
If a young and lonely daughter wanders just a bit too far.
Maybe he’ll begin the slaughter with a cut that will not scar.
Not a footstep out of place or louder than a feather’s beat.
Honestly was not the case for silence still did not retreat.
Not a knife or gun was needed, not a second did he spare.
As the mother prayed and pleaded, childlike whimpers filled the air.
In the rules still unwritten, etched beneath the mortal mind.
Through the marks where fate’s been bitten, something struggles to remind.
But despite the urgent pleading, terror forms behind her lips.
And he laughs, ‘cause he’s succeeding, from her mouth the screaming slips.
Crimson falling through her fingers as she crumples into sleep.
Don’t delude the mind that lingers, life is not a thing to keep.
Slowly in the feeble moonlight do her lips return to blue.
And the part that thinks it’s alright finally dies inside of you.
Now the noise of the defeated that escaped her tortured age.
Creeps around to the depleted lives and wraps them in cage.
And the things she won’t remember surface, burn your every thought.
‘Cause like fire comes from ember, screaming fuels the chaos wrought.
Then the usual quiet counting holds the killer’s promised fun.
You can feel the pressure mounting in the veins of those who run.
And the now familiar mocking in the voice that laughs and sings,
Lets you find a truth less shocking than the numb The Rose Game brings.
Now another soul is haunting in this desperate place you live.
And the death is only taunting, telling what you soon will give.
When the demon reaches fifty no one here will watch his gaze.
As it stares and in its shifty way begins the killing phase.
In the forest sounds are muffled quickly when they feel him near.
Listen to the way they shuffle, smell the ever present fear.
Every day the victims taken tally up one number more.
And the conscience he’s forsaken yearns for what he felt before.
Through the brittle branches, faces peer around the solid mist.
And the demon’s quickened paces find the blood he can’t resist.
In the years of still and quiet, more than lives he will devour.
Even if the lake of riot in his mind reflects the power.
Once again the moonlit screaming echoes out above the trees.
And the demon’s eyes are scheming something dreadful through the breeze.
Thirty days or so might pass before the killing starts again.
And the corpses in the grass flee to a place beyond the glen.
Seldom in the spaces broken by the silence we call day.
Did the hasty words unspoken stop your vision turning gray.
Something lurks behind the curtain that the darkened shadow makes.
And the evil, when it’s certain, feeds on death and past mistakes.
Screaming holds the dark disaster from a silence we call day.
In the twilight ridden evening, when the black is yet to fall.
Children find their hearts believing that the quiet isn’t all.
Even when the echoed crying fades at last from where you stand.
In the valley something dying screeches out its last demand.
Shake behind your hopeful smiling, cry behind your sparkling eyes.
Every day the bones are piling higher in the violent skies.
If the arc of stars is hidden and the clouds come wash the light.
If the crescent stays forbidden and the orb can watch the night.
If a young and lonely daughter wanders just a bit too far.
Maybe he’ll begin the slaughter with a cut that will not scar.
Not a footstep out of place or louder than a feather’s beat.
Honestly was not the case for silence still did not retreat.
Not a knife or gun was needed, not a second did he spare.
As the mother prayed and pleaded, childlike whimpers filled the air.
In the rules still unwritten, etched beneath the mortal mind.
Through the marks where fate’s been bitten, something struggles to remind.
But despite the urgent pleading, terror forms behind her lips.
And he laughs, ‘cause he’s succeeding, from her mouth the screaming slips.
Crimson falling through her fingers as she crumples into sleep.
Don’t delude the mind that lingers, life is not a thing to keep.
Slowly in the feeble moonlight do her lips return to blue.
And the part that thinks it’s alright finally dies inside of you.
Now the noise of the defeated that escaped her tortured age.
Creeps around to the depleted lives and wraps them in cage.
And the things she won’t remember surface, burn your every thought.
‘Cause like fire comes from ember, screaming fuels the chaos wrought.
Then the usual quiet counting holds the killer’s promised fun.
You can feel the pressure mounting in the veins of those who run.
And the now familiar mocking in the voice that laughs and sings,
Lets you find a truth less shocking than the numb The Rose Game brings.
Now another soul is haunting in this desperate place you live.
And the death is only taunting, telling what you soon will give.
When the demon reaches fifty no one here will watch his gaze.
As it stares and in its shifty way begins the killing phase.
In the forest sounds are muffled quickly when they feel him near.
Listen to the way they shuffle, smell the ever present fear.
Every day the victims taken tally up one number more.
And the conscience he’s forsaken yearns for what he felt before.
Through the brittle branches, faces peer around the solid mist.
And the demon’s quickened paces find the blood he can’t resist.
In the years of still and quiet, more than lives he will devour.
Even if the lake of riot in his mind reflects the power.
Once again the moonlit screaming echoes out above the trees.
And the demon’s eyes are scheming something dreadful through the breeze.
Thirty days or so might pass before the killing starts again.
And the corpses in the grass flee to a place beyond the glen.
Seldom in the spaces broken by the silence we call day.
Did the hasty words unspoken stop your vision turning gray.
Something lurks behind the curtain that the darkened shadow makes.
And the evil, when it’s certain, feeds on death and past mistakes.