Let's just think that the mind isn't mine, where the morning glow in a broken hour of a cruel mirror where instead of a letter to the birds, the glass sings, breaking like paper, where. The Flame of life fades because of those who don't forgive, not having the skin of the living that feels the most precious thing of a candle lit by death.
My house is a dungeon, which she thinks decides to move the dreams of those who have been interned or that tells me your mind isn't yours, your mind retreats into the walls of oblivion, where faceless guests dwell in the photograph of those who want to steal identity, where there is shadow and the mirror refuses to say believe in me because your mind is mine.
My mind collapses and I see my hands vanishing into the emptiness of life, in the darkness it will recede under the light of that candle that lights to breathe for my soul, but I have realized that I have no soul. I am only a breathing ghost wandering the dungeons beyond my mind, simply in punishment, where my life condemned me to my sin.