She was worthless from birth,

Wishing for the sweet release of death

To sweep her up from the earth.

It feels like meth

 

Being pumped into her veins,

Ounce, by ounce, by ounce by

Day and night her body gains

A new wish to die.

 

She looks up only to see a rotten horizon

Filled with ash and smoke,

Daring her to climb in,

To lose herself, to choke.

 

Maybe, it is alright to die.

If one thing is for sure, it is that

We all will one day lie

Beneath the living, taunted by the rats

 

Who are surely happier than we

Are. Though, one must wonder

Just how far, eight feet, eighty-three,

One will be forgot to be down under.

 

If you were to ask her, she would simply say

That yes, blood is red,

But only once it sees day.

If you were to raise the dead,

 

Then what color might it be?

Gray? Black? Opaque?

None of the above, you see,

For a corpse will never awake

 

As the person you once knew in life.

It has been named the eternal slumber after all.

The lady is quite dreary, so this knife

Shall be dressed in crimson, lay glistening in the hall

 

Where her dreams never quite made their way

Out of her mind. Maybe, as the light

Seeps from behind the shadows into the day,

Her pain would vanish with the night.