The Littlest Orphan: The One Who's Fallen

When sorrowful eyes turn to lies, and all her hearts cease to die, in the Deeper's South, the sun shall naught rise.

Manipulate a way into a life, cut up a heart. It's raw; take a bite.
Send a messenger to announce world's end, because it once opened at its seams.
Reave the sleaze, and tease with a please; seize, contain and halt, the disease spreading unto the trees.
Littlest Orphan running in the breeze, sob, cry, and fear what you'll never see - everything -, for all is dying.
Orphan fears lying without a mother, without a father, without a backbone; she fears sighing while so, so alone.

Littlest Orphan, why fall to your knees when the Angel of War's hearts bleed?
Kid, back up, none of this is healthy. Somewhere's a life to live, a person to be.
Little one, you're scary, oh, so scary, oh. The Littlest Orphan is scared, but not very though. 
When life rends to and fro, one finds themselves a child, a child with no evil to know.
It's almost obvious, in a way, so obvious the child could moan and say, "Cliche, cliche."

When eyes well up with blues-singing fire, and culture is struck with flagrant, vapid desires, 

don't look unto Earth, for they'll collapse right after their spectacular births.

When cyanide becomes a treat, and the mold-bleached souls are never left clean and neat,
War will draw nigh to a close, and he will then run. War exhales, reheating the sun. War soothes, heals; oh, well done. 

Little girl, little girl, they begged you not to fall down, 'cause Hell-spawn should never, ever touch hallowed, salted zero ground.