Hope Withers, Despair Thrives.

Eyes grow dreary, Lips grow cold, As beads of blood trickle down my wrist. A saddest story yet never told, As it comes to an end not moments before. I try to wring my eyes to see, through the dark melancholic room. As none really took heed, as cold and true my words can be. Death isn't beautiful, nor is sad, A Beacon of Hope, for those left with nothing, but a lasting Horror, for Delusional Beings. because, When Hope Withers, Despair Thrives, and kills one other, from the inside. As I lie on death's bed, she closes my eyes, drains my eyes, I see no one, sense no pain, Lips grow numb, eyes grow heavy, The Sliver of Hope shall remains in thy's.