Broken bones and jagged flesh,
he has lost his sanity, a damage to his psyche
Once when the hereafter used to be an eternity,
now left nothing but an unforgivable pain,
an agony,
an anguish,
the hatred and abhorrence to follow any.
The streaming boudoir stings the scent of an abbatoir
Unstoppable as it paints his chassis crimson
Months and months, hidden somewhere
Could the pain ever be nowhere?
Could he witness his death without jumping from the bridge?
Could he catch his pain when he doesn’t know where it bleeds?
He would thought of one thing,
that it might be rotten deep in his ardor.
But even heathens beg to differ — and the saint choose to defy,
for no man with darkest soul would breathe his elegy every single day
Or was it penetrated in his mind?
The hemorrhaging got worse and worse,
tearing him apart, leaving no mercy as he drowns in his own remorse.
But would he be sane enough to built his citadel?
Would he be sane enough to carve a laughter while setting timer to his own misery?
Only then he would see the red,
ever crimson, ever scarlet.
Perhaps gushing too much, and it’s already too late.
About time he lost all of his red,
about time he’s catching his death.
The agony of bleeding unknown,
And he would thought of the sharpest knife to cut him through,
but has it ever cross his mind,
it was the deed of a good Samaritan that hurts you?
When everything turns into fake niceties,
should it be clear that he, in fact,
is rotten six feet underground?
They had him buried before he could scratch the coffin with his nail, bleeding and intact to its wall.
Fuck about being considerate,
Fuck about being kind-hearted.
He owe no Prince in his past memoir.
Why bother living like a chained royal?
