He plays that tune again,
The spirits that he took,
Igniting a conflagration.
Hate and rage,
All contained within the frame,
And each of these finds it's own release,
Spilling from him,
With a monotonous repetition,
That echoes through the walls.
A sound that leaves,
Autumn colours,
Fading slowly on the snow,
Of her skin.
Yet still those eyes,
Stay dammed and damned,
Accusing the accuser.
And in the morning,
Hidden with a poor concealment;
Once more the blame will rest,
With doors and falls,
Or any lie that comes,
So easily to mind.