Three

my sky has fallen

as death seeped in

into my veins, a cold-blooded humour,

neither hurrah or three cheers lingers on for long

a time where the departed no longer remains

in the touch of light,

no breathe of fire, no beating of the drums

babbum, babbum, babbum.

an unsettling scent of ruse

forebodes a storm

in the far off distance -

shallow, as clear as day couldn't be seen.

no polished radiance to reflect your pupils,

as if you were buried hundreds and millions of feet beneath,

beneath the footsteps of those things above,

those things that have warmth, like a cosy chimney place after the blizzarding aftermath

of pure blank whiteness ache.

those unanimated things that ceased to exist,

are like rare pieces of gems that are dismissed

though, unfounded due delay

thus, the dead played dare on those

breathing clay

teeny-weeny raw of flesh

would've made my thirst quenched

with no distress.

the addiction of those sweet pulsing bloody veins

are the remedy to the crux of my angst

Till the end - they said

... forever when

Is the end?