Now I lay me down to sleep; my soul is bare — not yours to keep!
Ink made up of the darkest of shades, will fall down your, vile, face at a leisurely pace.
Do not to blink! Keep your discolored and bloodshot eyes open!
I watched your show,
I’ve been your prey!
Don’t you dare look away!
This one is to you—
No, not you…
not to be confused.
This isn’t to the wretched soul,
I somehow, long ago,
believed to have known…
but to you—
in all of your malevolence!
To you, and your exposure;
(plus a selfish, hopeless attempt in my own sense of closure.)
If my words were put to paper, they’d burn, each page set ablaze, smolder.
Watch the Ash fall gracefully.
The memory of us —
Ink made of…
in the shape of tears.
Relentlessly tugging on invisible years.
For all to see…
Down, down, down,
Barely hanging onto something sunken.
As if a boat,
haggard and decrepit.
Found at the bottom of our Ocean —
Ash will now replace those tears, and all of your fears.
If only Ash could mitigate you dear.