Just some spontaneous aberration drawn from recent experiences. It’s not as grim as it sounds, though I should not enforce my perspective.
Have a read.
In solitude, the pale one dwells,
‘Neath the shifting crimson heaven,
Weaving in the blackest hells –
Songs that twist and shine and deafen.
Thirstful sour sickly soil
Spans for long and awful miles;
Laughing is the hardest toil
When one resides in stolen smiles.
Voices brought by inching breeze
Breed but barren lustful doubt;
They mock and slander and they tease,
Yet, one can never do without.
From disorder, whispers crawl –
“I will be forever here,
Grasping at the nearing fall;
Et je ne peux pas mourir.”