Empty hallways pay the price for being solemn. New paint shed upon their walls, dripping into the fires below. The touch of fate stains the skin and rips the soul from eternity. The darkness, never-ending, rains death from above. What pain overwhelms the fresh color upon them? Peace, absent from the silence, and screams remembrance out of its walls. A touch shadows rage and fear, bringing upon sudden persistence and loneliness; the paint's dread, still wet. Peace, a nonexistent dream. Find fear still hungry and a meal still walking. Empty hallways live for being solemn. Fresh paint shed upon their walls. Enter not the soft of smile, for new death will stain their souls.
February 23, 2009