It's upon these cold stones
Which now, I choose to sit, and wait.
Alone at sunrise, fear, hatred and of course, this synthetic 'Art of Doubt'....become me.
The ridged steps- my only companionship
the true essence of cold.
as my fingers numb, and I can barley type this out
Honestly know
I wonder how long and painful
death by ice
really must be.
Beside me; a building filled with everything I could ever ask for want or even need.
Everything.
And yet , Upon these Cold stones
I sit, just a while longer
To remember what I still have. Not mourn what I've lost.
But mainly, to be a man who doesnt deserve anything inside that wonderful, overwhelming sentimental house. Be it people, possessions even the animals-on those cold steps of reality-he deserves where he rests.
They all deserve more than what I thought I could haven given them.
More than this.
I am so sorry Dad.
Im very sorry Mom.
Thank you, for these cold stones. You will never understand the gratitude, which one day
I must leave behind,
of all the these priceless blessings.
But for now
It's upon these
Oh so cold, disgracelesss stones- you and me are too alike
melted with liquid burned and with fire, me and these cold stones
know true
desperation.
Stones cold stairwell winter waiting alone desperation failure rock personification depression parents guilt shame
