The Scourge of a Box

that I might adapt into a song. Incomplete. Updates to follow.

Guilt coloured as grief; that's all there ever was.
Wipe the slander off your face, rip those tears from your eyes,
Amass a perfect scene only to collapse and die.

It's relative, the feel of the sky crashing over you.
Tell it like a children's book, allow room to improvise.
Another horizon darkens, but still stands through the night.

Grim? Maybe. Sick? Maybe. What's on this Earth that's not?
Tonight I write drunk on the taste of heartless fate
And tomorrow edit, sober as the wife of the late.