Your eyes are stone cold,
Coloured with a dead black,
Lit with a blank expression
And surrounded by missed sleep.
Your hands are icy and damp,
Covered in your salty sweat,
Riddled with blue pen ink
And shaking with missed sleep.
Your hair is inches from death,
Portraying your soul’s small fire,
Flowing down like dried spaghetti
And uncared for from missed sleep.
Your light is shining thin,
One blow from being extinguished,
Flickering like a candle at night
And miscoloured by missed sleep.
Your body is brittle and blue,
Shaking from the strain,
Faltering as if your soul has gone
And dead caused by missed sleep.