my little grove of dread.. that little thing inside that is shriveled and dead.. once a beating organ now filled with dust.. collecting all the hate absolutely no room for trust.. slowly it wilts away.. in till you water it, it will float astray.. now come to the pretty place where i am not yet dead, my little grove of dread.
my little grove of dread.. that thought not so clear in my head.. once a flowing mind now tired and lost.. hiding away from the hurt and the frost.. slowly it crumbles away.. sleeping, hopeing for a better day.. now come to the pretty place where i am not yet dead, my little grove of dread.
my little grove of dread.. the words that i once said.. once a sharp tongue now dull and dimwitted.. kept silent and defeat admitted.. slowly it rusts away.. not being used "saved" for another fray.. now come to the pretty place where i am not yet dead, my little grove of dread.
my little grove of dread.. the cloths i wore but now i have shed.. once defining my struggle, now ruined and torn.. it makes me wish that you never were born.. slowly they fade away.. fighting someone elses war in some far off day.. now come to the pretty place where i am not yet dead, my little grove of dread.
my little grove of dread.. the nights i toss and turn in my bed.. once a place of rest now dark and despairing.. my little demons plan there, preparing.. slowly i slip away.. falling into an abyss where even i cannot stay.. now come to the pretty place where i am not yet dead, my little grove of dread.
My Little Grove Of Dread, the place that is splattered in red. through the trees see the sunrise, beginning a new day of demise, how you wish it away and cover your eyes. this is a place of dread, pretty it is its still splattered in red, the blood of the thing now shriveled and dead.
-Aidan R. Swegles