The moon hangs in the corner of the night, as starts litter its canvas.

It's the perfect time on the perfect night to sing out farewell to this life.

And its creeping in the mirror pulling me inches closer to the truth. Will my mother cry or try to hide.

When she finds out her child's been buried alive?
Will the mourning birds chirp and these dead flowers hurt, when they find out their friend has been swallowed by dirt?


(www.ThePaydays.com)