Vern

Tenebrous skies cover unkempt houses, where a boy sits in his own consolation,
He is pained by the chagrin of puberty, and the grief of his constant rumination,
About the discontinuation of life of his deleterious and often times detrimental parents,
With the ample time for his speculation, he came to a final determination,
Death will not bestow grief on him, but give him a pleasant alleviation,
Still lying, agonizing, fantasizing in his unsightly narrow cave,
All clumped up with spine affliction along with the lack of a spine so brave,
As to leave his place of birth, a place where his own creators afflicted pain,
The place where his creators now lay enslaved to their own graves,
In a backyard filled with memories, memories to which his languishing mind is now a slave,
The deafening ringing in his ears clogs any formulated thought,
He quivers anticipating the next blow, however, is completely alone and distraught,
No cries, screams, or prayers from a man hiding from himself,
Stuck in silent paroxysms of pain, caused by a mother well overwrought,
And a father who never intervened but watched the calamity of a family destined to rot,

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