Something I can't seem to grasp.
I can remember the fifth of November
But I can't forget the regret of this sixth of December.
Its almost like there's this spirit, hovering
It's over everything I try to do.
I sit down on the fuzzy rug; I'm forced to stand.
Pointing and laughing, the spirit has me in its hand.
The lovely stars painted in the jet-black sky
The lovely stained glass in the dirty window
They stare at me, the kittens, with their cold eyes.
Asking quite politely, why, why, why?
Look at the crisp white wall.
There seems to be only one flaw: a bloodstain.
Small, though huge in consequences, the wall bleeds.
And my conscience continues in its feast.
What have I done?
I drop the knife,
My hands are red.
You are also in that room, dead.