The red stain marks the life,
Dulled on the edge of this sharp knife,
It's mere presence births the strife,
That has been inflicted upon his tender side,

Smoke curls around the hand,
That cut the life from this simple man,
Bloodless and loveless, it's all the same to him,
Does it really matter the difference between beginning and end,

Haunting ghosts laugh at the misery,
Pointing and teasing as he tries to bleed,
Waiting, anticipating; drops that never fall,
Hiding, concealing; thoughs he never heard call,

The blade falls and never hits ground,
Because there is no end to this hole he's falling down,
How he misses his solid land,
How he wishes he still had his plans,

Lost and clueless, he wanders forth,
Soulless and needing, what's he heading towards,
His eyes are closed and he can't see,
If there's a light in this tunnel' if he's really free,

Left foot, right foot,
No feet at all,
Sidestep, dodge around,
Either way he still falls,

Stand still, run foward,
Isn't Life a bitch,
The hardest thing you can't do,
Is not to scratch the itch