I make my own misery
yet it remains a mystery
how I make things
in the first place
Who is able
to get out
of a maze
in which thoughts
make up it's walls
over which a witch
flies and cries
awful lies
into the ear
in which fear
is roaming
singing death
through vein
where pain
seems so real
where it will kneel
till a storm silences
and silence
never silences
as no silence
is ever silent?