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