The blood runs through my veins so slow,
It decays and rots my heart,
My head is faltering too, so dead;
And I cannot think of words.
Yet I write – oh I must, I know!
If I didn’t, I would break,
And then the words would spill from my body
And scatter upon the floor.
My last release in this world,
Since running cannot cut it.
And I wish to find some solace in this,
But I’m not sure if it works.
It still hurts.
Does that mean I felt it,
Because it still hurts?
Yet my mind feels shattered;
I cannot think,
Slow, slow my thoughts sluggishly go.
My heart is broken, ruptured like glass,
Melting as icicles to the ground.