Tourniquet

I watch the rain pelt my window pane,
Eerily cold,
Like the rattle of a dying man's breath,
And from the shelter of a memory,
From long, long ago,
I raise a toast to the vestige of our health.

I watch the decay of a love in the grave,
It turns to dust,
Crumbling like a sandcastle in a wave,
Show's the face of neglect, in retrospect,
Hindsight's ghost,
Too mysteriously vague to be saved.

A dark mist crawls among my thoughts,
Stealthily creeping,
Cautiously awakening the skeletons,
And the past becomes the present again,
Silently teasing,
Constantly provoking my emotions.

So I will weep for you this one last time,
My solemn tears,
A performance of sombre melancholy,
To sink my spirit in a pit of depression,
To fuel my fears,
And feed the persistent angst of my folly.

I bear the marks and I bear the scars
Of a broken heart,
And I bleed the blood of poison through my veins,
It seeps through my flesh like porous stigmata,
Tearing me apart,
The rope acts as a tourniquet. My skin turns gray!