WitheringHow true hollow minds make humble home for the unholy,
What horror the silent screams of a thousand idle thoughts,
Such is man, without passion wither into eternal oblivion,
Weaver of riddles, of reason and rhyme tangled in his own web rot to husk,
So great is the fear of the abyss, greater still the torture of its infinite gaze,
A wretched soul awaits some justice as the heart yearns to grieve another arrow
Time inevitable, infinite, ruthless and forgiving, as summer to winter,
Cowardice to shame, shame to anger, to pain, to fear . . .
So it goes, the seasons of my own, demons rejoice, I exist.