Pigment of the evening overwhelming, by thought artfully winding, and weaving, for naught. Though your vision is endless your colour needs work, it’s drab, unto darkness, your pallet’s berserk.
You must change;
You must change how you’re feeling. From bottom to ceiling, I swear that you’re healing. Disregard the unfeeling, forget that you’re reeling. Do not be caught kneeling in thoughts now congealing- to naught- but the pealing- of bells;
Or be lost.
Not to life, but to cause. Draped in strife, trapped in was.