Shear in its departure,
Callus, in my head,
Screaming from the wound it left,
My skin is speckled red.

It left me weak and empty,
A mere shell of was before,
The darkness did find what it left,
And tainted evermore.

I cannot read the writing,
That from my hand did flow,
My eyes find perfect gibberish,
That my mind refused to know.

A hundred perfect reasons,
To take myself away,
To give in to its sweetness,
And let the darkness have its way.

I am not the victor,
I still return to this,
A darkness born of one man's loss,
And the lack of loves true kiss.



 
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