Red On Top of Green
An empty summer has just ended, not that summer ever started. For me every season is the
same. Journeying towards an autumn, just another time in which more bloodshed's bound to
come, just a swimming pool of crimson and the children all have fun. Liquid is still
liquid, the savior from the heat and all those seeking shade and comfort frolic towards
the beast.
I cannot see a point to life, a common trait of weakness to the armed men of asylum,
holding sane people hostage with their knives. Whining is for the poor and the weak,
sitting by jovially as they slaughter us in our sleep, yet they cannot stand to hear us
whine, they cannot stand to hear us weep. Escaping from their own guilt perhaps? I don't
know but till then I'll never sleep. Instead I'll keep on weeping for every life forsaken
and abandoned in the streets. Every season is the same to me.
Just more red on top of green, raining eternally.
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