Decadent-Pigeons

I often stop and ask the sky To tell me what comes when we die, The clouds don't seem to understand The problem that I have at hand, They drift across the cerulean, That stretches past the lofty green Of mountains rising up to meet, The puffs of wind so soft and sweet, But behind all the endless blue, I know that there's a darker hue, Engulfing black with little white, Forget any celestial light, It's just a gaping emptiness, Devoid of air and life and yes, It seems that we aren't anywhere, Or if we were, no one would care, They've better things to ponder on, All the ones that too are gone, Because they don't exist as well,

A life of love, Of Joy, Of Happiness, Looked me in the eye, Asked 'What do you want?' When I turned it was gone. A life of hate, Of misery, Of crimes, Looked me in the eye, Asked 'What do you want?' When I turned it was gone. I chose a life of hate. I thought it would make me admired. I thought it would make me strong. I wasn't thinking. I am not admired. I am not strong. I am hated, despised. I am corrupted, weak. I sit here. Watching Time Drain away. In this cold grey room. On this cold grey cot. In a cold grey world. I turn. Turn to the first life Of joy. But this life does not fade. It will never fade. No on

 I was shocked...dazed. A steel knife eased past my clavicle, grating sickeningly. I felt clammy sweat trickle down my face. Watching the knife rotate slowly, I could nearly feel myself grow paler. I looked up, eying the brunette who stood behind the knife, dark brown hair swept into an immaculate ponytale. His eyes, which could have been charming and mirthful, were chillingly stony. His suit was the colour I would imagine Midnight wearing. It was black, with a blue-ish sheen if the right light caught it. I shuddered as the knife made another quarter rotation. Stumbling backwards, my gaze was locked onto the hilt protruding awkwardly from my