He's just a man of ash and rust,
Hairline cracks all choked with dust,
All broken whispers, soft decay,
Soul stained to death by shades of grey.
He's just a decaying boy,
Only born to end, destroy,
Fragile bone and sallow skin
Eroded from within by sin,
And a hollow stare as flesh
falls away.
Thin as a moth's wing, with paper blood, dead eyes,
Only strength an iron web with strands woven from lies,
Muscle, sinew, snap, corrode with time, and worn,
And a silent bleeding cry as at last, the heart is torn.
He's just the rotten man without a hope.
Don't mind him.
