Wrath

He cries over
The wasted years
frantically digs deeper into memories
like a grasping for life
taking his last breaths
finding nothing but a void
he looks down, the hands look foreign
his hands, why are they so red and cold
his vision is blurred
yet he sees a perfect coat of red
what has he done?
his eyes flicker to a spot on the floor
Jane, refusing to move or breathe
all his efforts in vain
a requiem in his ears
his own body now hollow
like a vessel, devoid of a soul
the clock strikes 12
the perfect circle
he drowns in abyss of madness

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