Often, thoughts, they send no warning,
Things that sometimes shame my head -
And shave it with the awful burdens
of sickness, darkness, hopeless dread.
The butterflies that once fluttered, dead.
The flowers, perfume now a blight.
The easy road is suicidal.
No longer can glass correct my sight.
It's crushed along the path I roam.
Shards along the way I chose.
Blistering and whispering
Mistakes that shake my hollow bones.
And in the depths of my thoughtful hell -
a sign stands testing time.
"Six hundred and sixty five miles left...
till Little Red's humble viewing shrine."
