Black is not a colour.
Standing on the brink, reaching out and almost tasting the insanity that begins to surround.
The chaos that lures deep is stretching. Clawing. And awakining.
Black is turning to red.
The night hardly chills those who feel hells fire burning their soul.
Scenes of a life once past is a shadow. A shadow that appears as rubble.
But one does not see. One does not see what will pass.
Consuming hate is blinding. Severing of conciousness is all that is.
It will not pass. Make it pass.
Black is now red.
Hate cannot see. Hate cannot feel. Hate can never rekindle.
But hate is.
And hate can recoil.