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.


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