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?