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 In my dark cosy cage again, as the culminating sliver of gray light seeps through the white nets of my curtain.

I lay in my bed again, cloaked in the contrast of white among the still darkness of my room.

Captivated by a reminiscence of love and how she ran away.

I am foolish and I have failed all that loves me, I am a withering rose marching to an ensemble that leads me to a path to hell.

Existence is bleak, being without being is nothing but a precursor of greed.

And in this nothingness, I float me, myself, and my wretched pretty lust.

What have I become? Oh my pretty gray sky, why have I massacred the stars, why do I hide within the breasts of a parasitic moon.

And relish as she guzzles every inch of my impeccant blood.

What have I become? an incessant coil of solitude and hatred

Or rather pure utter loneliness, not solitude

For in solitude one finds peace amongst themself