I have always remembered

that broken hearts bleed red

and my past is painted like Soviet Russia

My past walls are plastered with newspapers,

my past full of black  print,

of haunted nights and days and halls,

empty caverns of clotted blood,

with crimson stained jewels in forgotten chandeliers,

hanging over my head upon entry, upon exit.

My walk through the halls of my sullen life,

breezing past potraits,

that follow with eyes,

breezing past my past,

that is bloated with lies,

keeping the lights off so

I dont see the chandeliers glow,

keeping the lights off

so the eyes stay dim,

keeping the lights off so that red is black

keeping the lights off,

so blood is in the past.