GRIM GRIME GRIMER

In the abysmal realm of love’s demise,

I question the veracity of life beyond,

The hollow specter within me cries,

Futile tears, my wails, a fruitless bond.

Doth thou believe in existence after passion?

I, a mere vessel, drained and feeble,

In depths uncharted, reason’s ration,

A strength thou lack, a truth immutable.

My endeavors futile, as I suffer, oh my,

Thy cries, a futile echo of despair,

A crimson haze engulfs, I’m forced to comply,

I collide, my head against walls, stripped bare.

For in this madness, a glimmer of solace gleams,

A sliver of courage, amid desolation’s reign,

In this despondency, where fear unwinds its seams,

I find solace, unburdened, free from disdain.

Worry is futile, a futile endeavor, I know,

In this unending struggle, I’m destined to lose,

Yet, with defiance, my spirit shall bestow,

In this abyss, where love’s flame I refuse.