Handle with Care

Black

 Your veins are black – Mother

Nature's confession.

Your addiction has left one

hell of an impression.

Your eyes are dead.

Your heart is cold.

You look forty-five, when

you're twenty years old.

You made me a promise, one you

swore that you would keep.

With a mask on my face, I

mutter, "This isn't happening." 

 I followed you down these

half-rotted halls - this is where you go when you don't

answer my calls.

The devil, he locked you in this abyss.

You deserved so much better, 

then to end here like this.