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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Shame and years of tears have hardened like asylum bread and now the children want to know of your intricacies Mrs. Billingsfesh. Along the hallways of this home for wayward children, how fast will you run? The children believe you will be possessed of a sleek agility that is rare for an orphanage custodian of your seasoned years. Within the dormitories of this home for wayward children, where will you hide? The children believe you will have an uncanny knack of concealing yourself in the darkest and trickiest of places. Mostly. Throughout the corridors of this home for wayward children, how loudly will you scream? The children believe you will sear your throat and burst the blood vessels in your eyes with the tremendous bluster of your lungs. Against the doors of this home for wayward children, how hard will you beat your little fists? The children believe you will fracture knuckles and drive splinters beneath your fingernails in your feeble attempt at escape. Below the vaulted ceilings of this home for wayward children, how many atrocities will you discover as you barrel from room to room? The children believe you will come upon every single one of their merry little annihilations. Soaking, ruined and still. So very still. Upon the cold, stale air of this home for wayward children, how long will the perfume of your burning skin linger? The children believe that you will burn so brightly, and for so long that your charred and smokey fumes will coat these dead, stone walls for eternity. We have gathered our numbers Mr. Billingsfesh and the only thing that is left for you to do, is run. Down the halls, through the dormitories and out into the exquisite, white winter night.
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