It stares,
vacant in hallow madness,
on sure,
those colors once know meant as that,
is only the one born of those yes in wear,
eyes.

A face so blank,
that broken the fairness and strangest eyes that once were.

All gone of so if this wasn’t clear of what it could have been.

Left by nothing in so.

Lie is how it came to be.

Becomes the itch of the memory,
a-passing on years ago.

Of the raven with demonic wings that mock,
the wingspread of an angel.

Loose in matters long,
madness takes place,
as in always,
of how fables drown the brain,
acid burn in smoking puffs,
that’s all it ends in a world,
that never makes sense,
but that’s how the world is.

Unsure madness that only can,
for just a moment,
lead to an unknown answer,
that is dying to be spoken,
even if no will hear it,
not even a whimper.

Small,
but always echoing in the fields of white noise,
at the end of the eardrums,
screaming.

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