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I'm hidden amoungst the darkness.
In this blood-tainted shell.
The wounds stagger and deepen.
Farthest extent; I can't tell.

I cannot be assured.
And no assumptions can be made.
Shadowed, and bewildered.
Until hopelessness will fade.

Relied on spells and mystics.
Reaccused on lies and truth.
I remain breathless and disturbed.
Of my disorientated youth.

I haven't the nearest idea.
Nor the faintest clue.
Of why I'm stung with pitty.
Or what my lungs have got to do.

Entoxicated; they are useless.
Divine, avoked revenge.
Though, what my heart seeks.
Are things I'd know not to dread.

The priorities of my mind.
Are not expected or assumed.
I can't erase the empty feeling.
That lingers this crimson wound.

The 'wound' being my heart.
So delicate, so fragile.
One half has already been torn.
The other; intently mutual.

Fate isn't a question.
Not an answer, nor a gift.
It's the hole of every tunnel.
Eventually, it swallows us in.

There's no reason to be frightened.
Or to be at all afraid.
It may be black and cold.
But is death a better place?