White Steed.

White steed is a key to a door without a keyhole.
Perhaps it's some security, the widening threat of never awakening.
One pinpoint to make you whole; a hunger for death's kiss fails to feed your soul.
Slip off into a dream, still pondering this loss of freedom - what is your role?

Harlow Blake, we'd call her, spat from the womb of a blackened spoon
and rocked asleep by bruised arms under a sorrowful moon,
only to be awoken each mourn with the alarm of a romanticized smack.
The ultimate maternal crime, a baby soothed on toxic milk's corrupt croon.

Misery courses through many a vein,
leaving you drooling in an all white facade,
'tis a sick recipe without a prescription, as a distorted euphoria lays across your brain.
Sanity and control: no longer can we feign.

Mama, papa, oh where to place blame?
Diluted into a puddle, drained into a cup, swallowed right up,
mere pawn in someone else's game.
So bright, so handsome, so the gentle words surround, "What a shame."