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Cresting over bed sheets are eyes asBright as the morning sun, blinding with colors; promise,Hushing a giggle from my lips with his tender kiss,He is the dawning of darkness,Though sunlight drips from his kind smile,
Buried on a bed of roses,His eyes closed and aged,Wrinkled flesh and pale faced,Grandiose was his life,Elegantly treasured pieces,He was rich in his ability,He was famous for his cruelty,
Passive, my eyes are closed and my hands are cold,A light is shining in the corner of the room,And shadows are dancing alone, but lively.Voices coming in and out, names to the anonymous,It's all a trick now.
Pressure is applied to a mental wound,Bleeding out imagination, determination,The memories are painting the floors in blood-Discrepancy of a tortured soul; spilled ink, spilled thoughts,
Inhale the light of a fading street lamp,Illumination creeping into black lungs,Cancerous to breathe in smoke, but exhale,The luminous factors are in virus containing cells,Streaming in the veins of a vile creature,
The eerie feeling of silence after the screamingWill consume the humbleness of your heart,Chills down your spine with each second passing by,Insanity creeping into the mind of the sane,
He couldn't put the bottle down,His sorrow was unrequited,His hands were unstable,And another shot soothed him,Comforted by the burn,A physical rather than mental hurt.
It's as if the illness of sanity was contagious,Spreading like wildfire through his body; catching fire on the fringes of his heart,Bright colors uttering his title: but the question arises, what is his name?
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