Him

Shattered, he stands, evident in his demeanor.

Loneliness, a potion for some souls, A sort that self-destructs its own innocence, Replacing it with a toxic thrill, a haunting sequence.

He consumes it, a dark abyss from within, As he ages, oblivious to his inner craters. He bleeds, engulfs pain into the novel, Mindlessly drifting along, in a thoughtless sprawl.