A young boy is sitting beside the window
a razor in his hand
a blank expression on his face
staring outside at the snow covered lawn
a frost-bitten, sickly blue-grey tinted face
with blue lips atop a clenched set jaw and chin
accompanied by a lonely crimson tear in a glacial state on his cheek
detectably from a blood-shot eye
in a recess of the once pale face of a loner
there is a noticeable frigid stream of life
writhing away from a raw gash in the thin dead wrist
to a miniature stalactite on the tip of a grey thumb
the frozen formation pointing warningly
to a brilliant puddle of iced-over scarlet spirit and soul
that which was erstwhile lively
is now wilted like a rose in the sun
his life; my life; eternally wasted as it was
is now a frail form in the withering distance
a razor in his hand
a blank expression on his face
staring outside at the snow covered lawn
a frost-bitten, sickly blue-grey tinted face
with blue lips atop a clenched set jaw and chin
accompanied by a lonely crimson tear in a glacial state on his cheek
detectably from a blood-shot eye
in a recess of the once pale face of a loner
there is a noticeable frigid stream of life
writhing away from a raw gash in the thin dead wrist
to a miniature stalactite on the tip of a grey thumb
the frozen formation pointing warningly
to a brilliant puddle of iced-over scarlet spirit and soul
that which was erstwhile lively
is now wilted like a rose in the sun
his life; my life; eternally wasted as it was
is now a frail form in the withering distance
