I can't write, and I definitely can't sing,
and I don't smile, because of the pain within.
I lay on the ground and stare at the sky,
if I was of the type, I guess i'd cry.
The warmth in your eyes as you hold me tight
is like a beacon to my soul in an endless night.
But the journey was not yet complete,
when the rug was pulled from beneath my feet.
So through this void I now roam,
lost, confused, and bitterly alone.


Penned by my hand on the 19th of Mayan, in the year 259 AF.