Clawed hands grasp at the ceiling. Why are the hands here? What does it mean? Death’s claws?
I know what makes that image.
I know there is a flower on the other end shining in the light.
I know what created this image, so why all this fright?
It was fear. I was told that clawed hands don’t hold good stories.
Wide mouths sing no good songs.
I have been told to fear this image.
Fear these claws and screams. You shall know nothing of their pain,
But I know what creates that image.
There is a flower shining in the light.