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Into dark, deep, haunted dreams,
Where no reality is as it seems,
A heart pounds and a wrist bleeds.
The noose calls and the shadow leads.
The leaves and ground are crimson red.
Stained with the tears and the blood of the dead.
And even though the tortured plead,
Their life became a death instead.
The lifeless bodies tinted blue,
Are covered with depression’s dew.
The hopeless ghosts are soulless too.
And the murderous scene left not a clue.
The spirit’s wisp shouts chilling cries.
And the hooded shadow whispers lies,
About the beauty of death’s demise,
How beyond the living lays a prize.
But the prize is fake and it lays naught.
And a curse of hell on those who sought.
And no matter how the curse is fought,
There is no peace for whom die distraught.
So with no gift for those crucified,
There is no hope for un-unified.
A selfish death is not purified.
And this is what awaits a suicide.