The Object

As a child loyal with faith,

With the curiosity to enter freedom.

He enters the fallacy of happiness,

oblivious to the reality of sadness. A school of thought brimming with different ideals and similarities,

yet no one nor friend filled his seeking clarity.

"Different, not unique" as he pondered.

As the sharp edges delved deeper into his unwise state.

He established the difference between these two.

He was different from others.

Not unique.

Not special.

Just.

Different.

Yet the boy stood strong with righteous behaviour. Praying alone with his guiding moral,

In order To erase the hell engulfed within notorious quarrels.

Tortured with sharp edges and colour said to be tainted with distaste.

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Touted with manipulators feeding a smile of a fake face.

Yet.

He found a cure.

As the boy grew in cruel years the antidote welcomed his fearful fears.

A tragedy may a human say.

But a gift of a bless'ed day.

An object of hopeful elegance protruding its heartfelt happiness,

Pleading to tame the woeful sadist

Created from the ashes of tears burnt with dripping puddles of regretful loneliness. An acidic hell drenched in the desire to rid himself of puppet strings.

yet a chiming bell with a motherly touch, destined to propel a boy with angelic wings.

The wings to rise to a light.

With the memory to embrace his darkness delight.

A saviour and a boy.

An object and a soul.

Let harmony and corruption flow equal into his present legacy.

Let harmony and corruption flow to maintain his puppet felony.