la mort de l’innocence

do not cry little girl do not leave your chair do not let

your feet touch this earth does not want you the wind

will not carry your whispers and this

moment may be the brightest of your 

little life of struggle and pain;

don’t trust the man with the machine

standing there in front of you

he is no photographer

he is no other than your dark future

staring at you

through the keyhole of the door

that will forever remain closed; 

his eyes are black thorns, 

he is the collector of lost souls;

in his world you’re not welcome.

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