It's-killing-us

The coldness of your methodical emptiness shrewdly poisoned me with a darkness Unavoidable. I'll make it, some how. You tainted me with rugged blood, I saw it splatter over the spacious past unto The nihilistic future of all saints and devils. But, why? There's something to your non verbal speech I'd love to find out. We listen to your silence The very thing that permeates our surroundings. And find utter nothingness. You committed suicide, We won't make it if you are sleeping on the job. Somehow, we believe you rose from hellfire, Yet still flagrantly asleep in a world where you Never existed. Explain this corruption now breathing in our veins? And if it's all the same to non-existent you, It's killing us just the same.