Sitting on'a Belladona

Friendly faces fill my screen,
The seem to live,
And seem to scream,
Diving to my unconscious life,
And filling it with strife.

Turgid blossoms,
Poisoned truth,
A loving poison,
A soup of rue;
Oh my, don't they seem so blue.
The blackened soul,
Of the Nightmare's dreams,
Torn asunder,
And filled with beliefs,
Oh my,
They feel pleasure at the sound of screams.

Darkened wisps of light,
Fill the void of midnight,
And the midwife,
With her chuckling cluck,
Toils over the cauldron roux,
Boiling it down,
To fill the puppet,
With the greatest hurts so true,
To make a life,
A life so new.

The finished product:
The darkest hole,
Stands at attention,
New and bold;
To walk with conviction,
Malice and pride;
To pluck the flower,
That told who died,
And sit upon the lasting waves,
Holding the flower,
With little hate,
To continue the cycle anew.

ISA