confessions of a never ceasing mind
I lay down, the hardened street my pillow, my hair, my
cushion from my fall. I turn to watcha crimson flood wash
the dusty gray a rich wet red, so very red. the street
glistens black as the flood continutes to outpour, after it
has taken in it's fill of the macabre drink. I watch the
golden strands turn to a rust, my skin feels cold, and
waxy. the cromson fades to blackness, and I turn my head
to look at the coldy bitter night, the stars glittering
like shards of broken glass in the lights of the street
lamps. it turns softer, the red so warm, flowing over my
throat, making the sky appear warmer and beckoning me to
it, beckonging me to it's dark embrace. Shall I give in?
Shall I fade as the blood that pourse form the wound of
I stare outside of the window, another scar over the place
that my heart resides, another place upon it's battered
form that does not show, but will never fade. My hand goes
to the offended organ, and I wish for a way to have peace,
a way to find relaxation...a way to be free.
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