In the thick mist of no light
Is a soul with a glorious gait
Relieved to be outside of sight
To indulge in his lovely self-hate.

Flowing from those regal arms
Comes streams of scarlet red,
Drawn out with intentional harm
As our soul wishes he were dead.

Skeletal fingers depart the flood
To move towards his scarred throat
Causing a purge to mix with blood
His death note becomes soaked

With the sacrifice of a bit of dark
Our soul ignites his charred skin
Innocent passages of skylark
Burn in place of imaginary sin.

When the tide of mist lifts
Our soul cleans the mess
Thinking of suicide as a gift
As he feats happiness to his best