Windstorm
The crimson sky darkens
flames of anguish hurls
across the whole world ignores
our hero digs his lot
Killing himself slowly... peacefully
as if the rain clouds
are tranquil and loving
our hero lives a dream
only deep within a asylum
where sorrow paces back
and forth with anxiety on
his shoulder spreading gossip
about our hero except
he's dug the lot
took out a razor blade
writing songs on his wrist
resembling decade long scars
with eyes resembling a windstorm
an pond of tears pours
deep into his lot
drowning his life away
cutting away useful minutes
All images cease to exist
now darkness hurls the horizon
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