Wishing You Were Dead (II)

This once lively watercourse running deep through me;
Is stagnant, stale brown and covered now with weeds;
The summer memories turned winter in my eyes;
The wail of the wind is companion to my cries;
My eardrums are bleeding from my own thunder head;
Pale blackened anguish wishing you were dead;

This corrupted silence that you have installed;
Ringing out so loudly the crier’s bell against the wall;
Slowly suffocated by your staunch hypocrisy;
Floating debris devils sank my life boat on your sea;
And my sole debate with staccato voices in my head;
Can’t help myself to stop wishing you were dead;

Now the doorway to that old, dusty, empty room;
Slammed shut in haste and propped up with the broom;
The hinges are all rusty and it’s nailed to the jam;
If I could open it once more and find out who I am;
The floor is permanently stained with the tears I bled;
Once more I find myself wishing you were dead;

This septic love that flows through my boiling bile;
Looking for your heart in that sacred compost pile;
Where you dragged me once over broken glass;
Crawling through it now making one more pass;
But in the darkness clarity comes from the things you’ve said;
Finding peace at last, but still wishing you were dead.