Dance that lovely waltz of yours, ten more steps to the traumatic end of you.

I can see the end of you.

Its quite deafening, the sound of knitting with barbed wire.

I think we have all had quite enough.

      I wish life was read to me as a fairytale while sitting in the lap of a picturesque grandfather, smoking his pipe of a life once lost, letting the whisps of apathy billow out of the bowl.  His eyes are two open wounds, silently bleeding.  Fairytales always close so beautifully.  The spider web on the wall grows thicker with each tick of the mighty grandfather clock that lay so peacefully on its side in the corner of the lonely room that i know only too well.  Fairytales always close beautifully.  Let these words slowly drip like blood off of the lips of the teller.  The fairytale writes our lives and documents our suffering.