He walks alone in the silent dark
Amidst the rubble of a shattered life.
The fire of his past lights the sky,
And he holds a well-worn knife.
A sea of broken promises lie shattered about him
And still, lies spill from his lips.
His hands are slick and wet,
Blood slips over his fingers, coating the tips.
Ash mutes all sound as it falls like snow
His every step scarcely more than silent.
The memories of hearts he broke claw bloody grooves and furrows,
Taunting, ceaseless, violent.
The wind whispers across his skin,
Setting fire to his wrists.
The cuts are raw and ragged,
A brutal memorandum; a list
Of all the lives he tore apart,
And all the moments that he missed.
He steps forward and falls to his knees,
Screaming to the sky with soundless rage.
Each scar reads as though a book,
Written by a prisoner in a cage.
He traces in the dirt the day she died,
The day she lost the war she was forced to wage,
The sorrow and guilt billow about him in clouds,
He feels old beyond his age.
So he presses the knife to his veins once more
And begins another page.