His inner eye wouldn’t stop crying A sorry sight to see tears dripping down metaphysical cheeks He loved it better when he couldn’t feel why can’t he cut this loose disassemble it bury it in the cold grown covered in a wet dew Running away doesn’t help when will it die? when will he? his thought saturated the cold sweat of depression a colorless rose made of thorns no use throwing it away will just prick the skin of his emotion what's going to save him? “oh it hurts inside, when will we die?”