As the crimson tide rises from your veins,
tears of blood crash like waves upon the sand,
streaming its earthy colours in a spiraling abyss
down the porcelain cheeks of your face.
Your life is spinning upside down, around and around,
zigging and zagging like that of a spider’s web.
The widow shares with you her weapon, the thoughts
of death eminent, consuming you whole.
You sit in your liar’s chair, the devil inside you,
thinking of how to leave your mark on society,
writing your jumbled thoughts down in secrecy;
for no one will believe your diseased mind anyway.
The help that you need, the attention you crave, is
always there but too far away when the time is upon you,
or so you think, as the sand in the hourglass slips away
into the darkness that has become your home.
Then you open your eyes… you can’t see.
When you try to listen… you can’t hear.
With nothing to say, you refuse to speak,
losing everything and nothing in the process…