#witherman

He's wilting, petal by petal, the pieces fall and detach and all he can do is stare, victim, at the self he use to know. He's as pale as the dead of night's overlay when the moon rises and shones over every dark surface, blatantly overbearing and hard to ignore. And he then breaks, fast and hard, unruly like the sun's emergency as it rises and falls again; a never ending play of the same sad scene. The cancer is in his bones and his cries are all of sorrow. He lies to rest never knowing if he's getting better of if he's on the brink of _____.