by icreepdecadently

Bored of life,
he sleeps in a bed,
has water to drink,
then fate throws him
into the
of poverty.

God changes his
and he dies of misery.

And yet,
when he awakes,
he awakes to the darkness that he now sees,
he knows not where
he might be,
but can’t see through
the cloud in his mind,
the cloud that has been created
by the essence of death,
the cloud of thought.

He tries too hard,
to see,
to be.
The cloud,
too meek,
too weak,
for his concentration,
for his will.

He wields the pen, as a sword,
Carves his destiny
into the creators chest,
never to forget the hurdles
he surpassed,

He awakes, from a bed, warmth.
He gets up, picks up a glass,
and has water to drink.