Garden of Despair
In a garden, not of eden but of a black shrowd, that describes only the most primitive feelings and emotions of a person trapped inside loneliness. I sit daily on a throne made of creaky wood that splinters by the minute, the floor is filled with razor sharp grass and the water is stained with blood. By night, I rest on a bed of despair with paranoia as my pillow and depression as a blanket. My thoughts all flow from a void in the middle of the arena. What goes in never comes out, and nothing comes out..
No comments:
Post a Comment