He sits in a shadow composed, unthawed.
Drove to live apathetically...
He hears a whisper right by his ear,
Don't be emotional, my dear.

A lonely path he'd like to fill.
There's no reason to fight alone.
He hates feeling like he's a tragedy,
Doomed to live on his own.

A chill of many unknown ends,
Surrounded by a sea of eyes,
No one noticed his fragile heart,
Yet he remains to simply cry.

He glances through the room he's in.
Looking for unknown predators.
A troubled past will do that, so...
Easily torn by just the wind.

Composing minor destruction.
Lucid chaotic construction.
How must he live in such a world,
That spits a path to combustion?

With many minor injuries,
His life may seem to wilt and bleed.
A cast of iron stained on him.
Choked by that life's sharp thorny weeds.