Rhymes

The battered sweethearts send postcards,
And the scattered charts ignite sparks,
And the mastered marks make remarks,
The captured depart into graveyards,
While the flattered make trademarks and depart.

all the people sad,
it makes me mad,
to know
that others go,
unwillingly to sit
in a deep black pit
no mercy
its a curse

As everyone just sits and stares
You hear the melody the rhymes you hear them sing
The curse is beginning
Maybe this is the end after all