The Rooms he no longer Enters

His soul portrays the eyes of a wolf, lost without his pack - banished from his territory. In his deceptive demeanour, hiding his depressive state - he howls at the moon. An outcast unable to dream, he adorns a false smile at sunrise, as he's still scarred from the house he once built - brick by brick. Where walls of lullabies, were created with his guitar he proudly called faith - but now it has no purpose with torn strings. To the one who stole his music box, you've left him mute with no reason to create new lyrics. Slate shatters on a roof full of broken promises, with window panes forever frosty, so no birds rest upon the ledge - only crimson feathers remain. His once vivacious abode now stands dust laden and hollow, each room echoing names that no longer hear his call. He struggles to breathe in rooms without oxygen. Yet feels the wind wandering through, freely, as it knows their footsteps better than he does, so his heart remains in a cracked glass cabinet. He has become blind to their opal eyes and sapphire smiles - which he first saw, when he first held them, but nothing glitters anymore. Sounds of giggles used to brighten the corridors, carefree, careless and caressing, but silence has repainted everything in shades of eerie charcoal. To you who poached his most precious jewels - you've stole his only treasured vision. All the trees he planted to shelter nests under branches full of foliage, are now leafless and even rampant rain cannot soften seasoned soil, bitter from the absence of ivory roses - whose roots refuse to bless his oasis. His fountain of belief, which refreshed humid spirits, has become parched from tears too fatigued to fall. Tonight there are no lights on the ceiling, so he reflects like a mirror under a starless sky. A prisoner of stubbornness born from childhood, his mind is still trapped in the decay of trauma, like a scarecrow soul trapped in forgotten fields, where nothing flourishes without his nourishment, so his lethargic hands fail to battle predators. In the affectionless, melancholy of loneliness, there is no sanctuary for the refuge he seeks. He is not refuse, he is no recluse, but has been cast away from the doors of love. He roams among selfish shells, cracking upon an island he once adored. Blistering, bleeding feet, wandering from mountains to meadows without a dwelling he can call his home. Fate, cannot break someone already broken, nor take the soul of someone forsaken - but he maintains the strength to survive in the hope they will search for him soon.