Thy mere soul and thy paint.
Forced to relentlessly battle.
Yet, not quite sure when; nor where to strike; regardless of such, thou need not bow beneath thy sworn enemy like a coward in the night.
Thy must remember that with time thy vessel shall grow to be rather faint.
Tis upon the beginning of the end, that thy brittle bones shalt rattle...
Whilst sorrowful eyes lose sight.
Now blind, beaten, and battered.
Hopelessly lost between what once was and all that has yet to come.
There be not a **** thing more mournful than thee, thy own soul withering away like a departing flower in may.
Thy trudged onward despite thy heart being shattered as well as scattered.
'Twas in that dreadful hour that thy feelings perished and thy had begun to grow numb.
What a remarkable day is to be rotting to the core like a corpse left to decay.
