.:. Burnt out .:.
Only by pushing myself, do I know I actually exist.
It's the feeling of tired-ness,
the body dosen't respond,
and nothing appeals.
Sighing comes naturally,
more often than speech,
without realisation.
Walk as if unwakened,
colours blurring to a dull,
and it all turns white.
But then again,
its not of exhaustion,
not one of tired.
Like the black blood,
circulating at will,
but not of my own.
The candle light snuffs out,
leaving an empty space,
which used to be filled.
Caring about nothing,
but everything else,
frustrates the very conscience.
Hearing only the piano,
as Soul plays the tune,
beside the demon.
Feeling of non-satisfaction,
the witch hunter now,
but a glare.
Pursuing the void,
the demon hunter,
I sigh once more.
Revealed on [5:59 AM]
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