Views of the Lost
Little Temptation
Down in the deep dark chasm
there is no end to abyss
and while drip-drops petal
a moonbeam chases thought.
Down in the deep dark chasm
there lies a drunken pool
where light is rare and unspoken
and sunshine is a fool.
It's where the monsters gather
every once in a while
to chatter with their demon friends
sending echoes to a child.
It's where lips are swollen
chilled and half broken
with dead bellies bloated
and eyes are all misty white.
Down in the deep dark chasm
that's where darkness is pure
and sometimes it will whisper
to a child, rare as its lure.
A beak that holds
sharp rows of teeth;
a tongue that lolls,
reaching for the deep.
Clothed with a shadow
and bathed in dark
his eyes will follow,
singing like a skylark.
The child of the village
craws on hands that bleed
tears of crimson pillage
and scarlet bloodied weep.
The forest calls to him,
its shadow stretches forth.
The skylark man will sing to him,
ask him what he's worth.
Answer with an infant cry
helpless as the pebble stone
the shadow man will play shy
bare his beak and fangs alone.
He'll steal the village child's shoes
wrap them around his feet
he'll take the infant's gloves too
to hide away his wheat.
And next he'll grab the babe himself
as he skips across the pebbled stones
the skylark man will sing his song
for the village child to carry home.
But today there are these fancy words
to give us our own breath
and tomorrow there'll be silken lords
who deliver silent death.
Maybe there will come a time
when we forget about our greed
but for now let us live the shine
that comes with temptation's seed.
The infant's tender screaming
the babe's endless crying,
was changed out for the weeping
of tears that just stopped trying.
They called him names
of things he was without.
They tricked him into games
of devilish scouring pouts.
And so the child grew
into a stout young boy
that never even knew
he was the demon's toy.
Instead there was a sinking,
a swallowing of dread
every time he saw her sleeping
because he knew she'd end up dead.
there is no end to abyss
and while drip-drops petal
a moonbeam chases thought.
Down in the deep dark chasm
there lies a drunken pool
where light is rare and unspoken
and sunshine is a fool.
It's where the monsters gather
every once in a while
to chatter with their demon friends
sending echoes to a child.
It's where lips are swollen
chilled and half broken
with dead bellies bloated
and eyes are all misty white.
Down in the deep dark chasm
that's where darkness is pure
and sometimes it will whisper
to a child, rare as its lure.
A beak that holds
sharp rows of teeth;
a tongue that lolls,
reaching for the deep.
Clothed with a shadow
and bathed in dark
his eyes will follow,
singing like a skylark.
The child of the village
craws on hands that bleed
tears of crimson pillage
and scarlet bloodied weep.
The forest calls to him,
its shadow stretches forth.
The skylark man will sing to him,
ask him what he's worth.
Answer with an infant cry
helpless as the pebble stone
the shadow man will play shy
bare his beak and fangs alone.
He'll steal the village child's shoes
wrap them around his feet
he'll take the infant's gloves too
to hide away his wheat.
And next he'll grab the babe himself
as he skips across the pebbled stones
the skylark man will sing his song
for the village child to carry home.
But today there are these fancy words
to give us our own breath
and tomorrow there'll be silken lords
who deliver silent death.
Maybe there will come a time
when we forget about our greed
but for now let us live the shine
that comes with temptation's seed.
The infant's tender screaming
the babe's endless crying,
was changed out for the weeping
of tears that just stopped trying.
They called him names
of things he was without.
They tricked him into games
of devilish scouring pouts.
And so the child grew
into a stout young boy
that never even knew
he was the demon's toy.
Instead there was a sinking,
a swallowing of dread
every time he saw her sleeping
because he knew she'd end up dead.