Immortal Death and Daisies

The distant sound of your voice is not stored
within my colorful recollection's box anymore;
walking down the memory lane edged with withered leaves,
paved with lilies, daisies and wooden bricks
leads to emergency exit created by crumpled conscience.

Sympathy wouldn't change a thing... yet, maybe I'm wrong,
Down on my own leakage of pain, stuffed inside,
the fountains of some newfound sadness spill guilt.
Now I tend to draw complex pictures with toxic crayons,
recreating fingertips plunged into liquid anxiety.

Beautiful patches etched on heart's surface melt under gazes
of pallid moonlight; [winged saviors now cause anguish];
Rehabilitation's canceled due to growing weed of regrets,
framed with mocking shrieks that endlessly echo.
Sometimes, just sometimes, I can drown inside of your eyes.