So many voices, all locked within one mind.
All set on seeing your demise.
Fiends as friends, not all the broken toys have been put away in the asylum's proverbial toy box.
The rains outside pale in stark comparison to the storms within.
I wrap my hands around your throat to entice, but what if I do not release my grip?
To view every room as a gallery and every sleeping body as a canvas of a crime scene's future investigation.
Was it a moment of insanity? Or a smoldering fire’s apex into the macabre?
Did they die quickly, or did their agonies linger?
Does it truly matter when all the pawns are dead, nonetheless?
Knock twenty times if need be until the skulls collapse.
Silence the desire, and please forgive the mess.
Murders Row is not for you to understand, only for you to read and decipher as you will.
We are many, don’t look for us.
And pray we never find you.