Cuts like a Knife

As I sit down to pen those lost thoughts,
those riddles that were never answered.
Just like this color sinks into this blank sheet of paper,
The days gone by leaves everlasting scars,
Scars that I’m struggling to wash away.
I look into myself, the hollow void space within,
Where it is raining.
Rain falls on those cold, frosted dark stones,
never kissed by the mighty oceans,
Though they lay motionless on the silver sand of the shore.
A fragile, frail figure treads upon
these emotionless stones, with bare feet cold and blue.
The cold melancholy of the wind
plays a forlorn tune as this spirit walks on by.
A pair of placid gray eyes,
cast it’s empty gaze upon the ray of light
from the candle that shines in the frozen hands of…

The thoughts are lost once again.
I could vividly see the spirit struggling
to hold the candle aloft, burning in the wretched rain.
His heart, yearning for something unknown.
Sorrow, so deep and pain, so grave.
The candle burnt low, but flames blazed within him,
Engulfing him in a fever of spite.
He burns in his solitude,
Solitude, which he once cherished,
Solitude, that I now loathe.
A shattered life, turning into a carnival of rust.
In this carnival, a showman,
a cursed soul tired of trying to catch
these razor edged rain drops
falling from those enraged skies.
Another who never dared to speak the unspoken.
When these eyes close in a moment of seclusion,
I realize, I feed the rain.