With downcast face
And loss of inspiration
Her voice echoing in his mind
He closes the bedroom door
Lack of passion
Was not his decision
It was his nature

Staring out the bedroom window
Watching leaves die their drifting death
Nature taking its course
A curse known all too well
He has grown comfortable
In his solitude
His sanctuary

Alone in his madness
Nowhere to turn
He turns within
And feasts on his hate of self
Cold soul, amongst his demons
Maybe it’s not so bad
The war was over, the score settled


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