There was a gloom in his eyes. A dark, washed
out gloom where all colour faded to grey
and demons spun their webs to lay in.
An absent, forgotten realm of colour
crumbles away in his hands and becomes dust
slipping from his grasp as the cold, thieving
wind snatches it from his palms. Even ice
can't withstand the harsh, bruised winters
in his heart. It shatters with deep, gutteral
screams as the cracks reach to the core
of his world, a world of black and white
disintegrating with every rattled breath
he somehow manages to draw between
the dried, broken skin of his lips.
Life is not life, where each day is walking
into an ocean of dust
hoping to finally drown.