The proud man's contumely & the oppressor's wrong is bare
on one who bears the scorns & whips of life, possessing a fear of something after death, murdering the innocence of sleep.
The dead
wasted in the middle of
the night when holy graveyards moan in solitude commented by suits
of solemn black in mourning
of a decaying race of man;
identical to a race of man seen incarcerated within the heart...Or one who finds he is loneliest then as a captive in the skull.
But it remains that the worst prison of all is within one's own heart.
As willow leaves hang low,
they hum a perpetual eternal tune;Death With You Is Nothing More Than The Little Deaths Before.
Cease to weep for the child,
for from whence you came, you shall remain...
Sullen,mournful,desolate and heartbroken.......................


R.I.P to the black,broken and coldhearted.
R.I.P to those who've lost an unregainful hope.
R.I.P to lost poets.
R.I.P to people like me.

-This one is for you.