Michael Gale (? / Chicago Illinois/Oklahoma City.)

The gong of the midnight choir rings true, to all that be just...
Only must we be just of this most, ransomed trust.

For we are the most lonely child...
Never meant to be ruined or defiled.

Gong the time left on the wall or door...
Ever going on as if we not be poor.

Hapless witnesses to crimes by man...
Never soiled or spoiled to a war sought plan.

The clock's hands have turned on us...
Shortening out, all the vagrant's touring bus.

Making our trip...
Slowly slip.

Slip from our hands outstretched firm at hand...
Not our brand, never planned.

Screams utter from vocal chords...
Louder than loudest, reverberations,
felt our, saddest, painless swords.

Sticking between the bed sheet's folds...
Dripping way down the wrinkled colds.

Colds that penetrate our hearts coldest timbre...
Hallow er than the shallowest thoughts grimmer.

Alas the story ends...
To Hades or Hell, do the angels of all that be evil, sends.

The end of all eternal suffering...
God's hallowed, holy re buffering.

Signals of evil do return to a home, less needed...
From all decent people, the Devil, receded.