When I feel that my own side of the bed is cold,
Some things start to make sense, fallin’ into place,
I’m wondering what I’m writing on my own face
Why does it become so hard towards the end;
to kill off my demons?
Why do they scream?
Why do they cry in my ears?
Why do they refuse to go from my flesh,
without suffocating my cells to the mitochondria,
Am I to ever be free of these dead birds around my head?
Alas, I walk amongst tall woods,
and by the branches spread,
I glimpse the true light;
my mind wrestles my heart,
my body all but torn to part,
whispers I need not fear,
for my soul, be I all ears,
will find me at rest some day