The flame flicks at his skin But it is light, at least; The promise that is never True.
Something stirs deep within his mind, In the darkest trenches of time. His thoughts boil and tear through in a storm- Leaves no trace on the outside.
Evident in his behaviour, Governed by a collapsing soul, By factors out of his control. Darkness has a hold of his form.
Rising- Pain, Filling- Insane, Brimming- Fear, Overflowing- Despair.
It burns behind his eyes, But the flame slowly dies, Releasing it’s final spits Of life.
Like a passing thought, A burned out bulb of light, Or a star plucked from the sky. Either way, It’s gone now.