Let me paint you a picture.
Of colors of a darkened pastel.
One of a more morose nature.
I walk down a winding wood in a bleak moonlit night.
An ebon veil encasing all in its reach.
Lightless accompanied by a sullen silence.
Cold winds with increasing volume and force.
It chills me to the bone bitter and biting.
I fall to my knees the pain unbearable.
How can such a place exist.
A prison within my own head.
A place so dark so sad is it my own creation.
Do the trees imitate a life with no growth.
Maybe?
I shudder at the thought.
What have i done?
Why do i sustain this nightmare?
The torment continues.
As a Shakespearean play composed by inner demons.
Each actor a piece of my soul.
Thier lines written by choices made.
They play on no curtain call in sight.
Death begins to seem a sweet release.
So easy to feel in such morbid manner.
I can imagine the knife striking deep.
Flesh and blood such feeble constructs.
Can I hold on?
Shall i escape the madness within?
Or fall forever to its seemingly eternal grasp?
Wake up! Wake up! I cry out
WAKE UP!
A light in the distance a vivid sound follows.
I awake to a golden dawn the suns warm glow.
And live on another day.
Till next I sleep and nightmares play begins anew.