The room is dark and my soul is alone;
Sharply cut by the blades of the whirring fan.
I have lived many lives, and have died many deaths;
Now I lie like a broken crayon.
At once I filled many pictures with hue
Empty pages that once drew a colorless stare
But the strokes that I made and the depth that I gave
Lie silent in numb disrepair.
My tears rum warm and my blood runs cold
As my mind lingers back – an expressionless face
Has the life that I shared and the color I drew
Vainly tinged an unfillable space?
The room is dark and my soul is alone;
Sharply cut by the blades of the whirring fan.
I have lived many lives, and have died many deaths;
Now I lie like a broken crayon.
