The feeling was one of being forgotten.
The air stagnant, almost rotten.
The ceiling was a tonne of stone.
Beneath the foundation, I feel prone.
Sorting through the ration, and the emotion.
The pain. The rain.
A malfunctioning drain.
Overzealous. Overflowing.
The treacherous creature, furiously rowing.
Water on the stony floor,
from the Storm above the ground.
I never heard the thunder sound,
from the cell, where they dwell
in the dark.
And have never been to Sunset Park.
And never heard the rooster crowing
before its light.
Because they know it's not their fight.
In that case, it must be mine.
Is it my responsibility, for the sun to shine?
Did I paint the clouds of my own free will?
For people to sit on their window sill,
and glumly look upon the Grey.
Was it only me who had a say?
The truth is it was your day,
as much as it was mine.
And it was your crimes
that you did in your primes that shape the world today.
And then there were those who hid when they should have lived.
And thrived where I would have died.
We're threatened by light.
Found freedom in a lack of space
and victory at the end of every race.
I couldn't keep me safe, even with mace.
For I was dazed in the sun that blazed too hard in certain places.
But disappeared at random phases.
It is for them to bite the dust.
And lust for god knows what.
That will help me stem the rot
in your spine.
Even though you tell me everything is fine.
draftt .