Tinted Glass, reflects before me, like a stale impassive drummer, idly sitting there in eternal slumber, never beating, never breathing.
Winds outside howl and wail, in the darkness, I sit and wait. Never before has the anger of Winter made me feel so old.
Anger from the dark Abyss, the dark Abyss of Carionca. From the grave, where the Witch still haunts me, from the past, that mocks me still, I feel this dark embroiling slumber of the glass before me.
In the dark eyes of the glass before me, tinted glass, that makes me wonder, where I'm from and where I go.
Glancing down at my mobile, at the picture of beauty dear, I sit in darkness and I ponder, why am I even still sitting here?
Dark the path that lies before me, dark the path from whence I came. Shadows rip and torn asunder, by the glowing of the frame. Frame from which in holy light, shines, the image of pure delight.
Raising high above my head, the guiding light I take to bed, I take three steps around the glass, and walk outside into the night. No longer do I fear the future, no longer does my fear hold me, and with courage from within, I submit, my plans for her to see.