This shell of a man is now free of the spell sang from the diseased siren hiding in love's mist,

But by death spoken he has already been long since afflicted,

And the echos still bludgeonly lament in the static of his mind from words that have left his heart sickened,

This blizzard of emotional famine he carries and the threadbare existence to which he clings can not coexist,



Like his old familiar role of the dog he digs his own grave,

For in the beautiful sunlight of life the growing warmth of dreams so near were forcefully aborted,

Held down in the lovely flower fields of his soul by vile lies sprayed with love's nectar his perception of everything now distorted,

For the memory of his aspirations now grey, and the last kite in his sky reading,"Hope," he became their slave,



As he now lays corroded and blackened he rakes the cold, feces ridden soil onto himself without pity,

Crows are now circling, and nocturnal horrors sensing his end,

He raises his hands for the last skyward imagining his gorgeous dreams in his fields of flowers, for through the flow of tears wishes he could mend,

Our patriarchs and matriarchs always said words couldn't hurt me, so why am I and my sky no longer pretty?