Not dead yet,

Don't even ask,

As the dead ones cut through,

My blood is running grey,

As I cry white tears in a wronged night,

Screams are all to be heard.

So before me you place the cup of despair,

My blood and milk-tears fall hence.

You know naught what is the most bitter taste.

For it is not in death.

Knives slice my flesh,

As statues of limestone are blemished so dark.

They soon belong to a piece of night.

And falsehoods melt on my skin,

Days merging into nothing,

No honey or cream will flow,

Only blood and tears,

Only death and despair,

Al but solitary figures in the barren frozen lands,

Everything is fragile with bitterness,

Hollow from the cries that split the hours of darkness.

All alone.

Abandoned.

Unloved.

Chastised.

The solitary figures and I stare as black, crumpled leaves pass through an unperceivable sky.

We are left behind unable to escape.

Trapped.

So I hold my breath waiting for the blinding,

To see through the mists,

For all I know,

It is only they who are with me.

Nothing bleeds or lives beyond.

No truth.

Only.

Solitude.

Listen for the crack as the five alone fall into the cavity nothingness.

No screams.

Just wait.

The impending sacrifice,

Yet nothing is gone.

I feel that there is something to miss.

Gone.

Annihilate.