Dust to ash and sweat to tears, uncovering my hidden fears, clawing at my hope, shattering it whole.
The light fades out in traces of pastel, lines of soothing aches, wisps of wounds healed, of scars deep and eternal.
Quills scratch the walls, ink dried long ago. Mad zigs crush gentle zags, drops of sweat corrupt puddles of tears, blood splatters color an otherwise mute mural of mourning shapes.
Soft is the touch that breaks the silence you were told to listen too for eternity,
sweet are the fingers that caress your ever silent lips, that open only for futile attempts at amnesty,
caring are the lips that tickle your ear with waves of piercing words, that cut you down in one sharp phrase, that slash at your lukewarm corpse...
Caring is the dark mantle, sweet are the empty eyes, soft is the touch of the scythe , lovely the look of the death, deadly your outlook, steady your heartbeat, steady at a dead pace,
persisting in beating to the rhythm of silence.