Every second turn to last before acting out all over again.
Laying down trying so hard not to dwell over a death body passing as time move flawless. The self loathing stage are in coma, burdened too much by the turning event of life.
An empty box of hope for no one to take, darkness has collided with the brimming lights and the circle has been rooted down to the ground.
The possibilities are just another nightmare for the brain, a major mental break down. An embarrassment point where a very deep and dark hole of wound could proceed.
The seed are already withered, no more growing except for the worst. No flower petals grows, no nectar to taste, just a dry... death, withered shell of an empry seed. Planted right inside with no escape.
Sleepless night out from the thundering sound of the storm. Another self loathing and deprecating on one side for end up to be torn and wound up.
A wake up call from the ashes.
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