The worn feeling,
The pressuring sensation,
The dryness in my heart, where should stir blood,
The motion of my form, against the songs of sadness,
Bellowed from my lips.
Inside of me.
The beauty that was with you, something held upon like gold,
The form you would give to me, as something to hold in one arm,
Has become a nothing, from an everything.
Like a Kingdom turned to ashes,
I am the slave receiving the lashes
From my veins.
Like the face of mine to become wet with tears,
There is a storm above my head,
And I have sworn myself to it.