The sun is precious outside,
Torching everything but my hide,
This bottomless pit of a sinner’s night.
You’d say it’s dark and cold
like the essence of a mortal’s fright,

Who, may that be outside my broken window?
Come in for tea but do not linger,
The night is darkest here,
As if death is always near,
Listening with its keen ears,
For pleas and sighs and tears.

I’ll be counting demons in my room,
They shall linger for the impending doom,
It’ll happen, not yet, but soon..
When the Muse see naught of the moon,
And the daisies forget to bloom…

When the night falls I shall write down
A story - Story of a girl,
Whose anguish you hear penetrates the walls,
At night when it was silent and still,
At night when the flowers were pale and ill.

She mourn for the lack of will,
Into the sink, the black pill,
Her tomb, the blue room, and the broken windowsill,
Haunted, by yesterday’s

.......laughter,
...........…........still.

And I’ll be counting demons in my room,
They linger like an impending doom,
It’ll happen, not yet, but soon..
When the Muse see naught of the moon,
And the daisies forget to bloom...

- Madnifesto, January 18th, 2005


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