Once the drizzle painted my blue windows,
with a story of a childhood filled with hope.
Now I just lie on the morgue floor with no windows,
with a decadent reality I try to cope.

Death is my final answer to all your prayers,
with blood will be written the poems I had scribbled.
As I struggle to escape despair’s different layers,
my heart lies by our door, all ready to be nibbled.

Seasons unleash their wrath on my decomposing soul,
nature vandalizes every corner of my memories.
Time would turn me into something bearable like coal,
to warm your heart on the nights of long worries.