Writing on the wall

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They came with icy fingers, hooks and whispered words. They cut me and bled me until my crimpled soul ran dry. They did not frighten me but your absence was cruel. Your eyes, my strenght, my lost haven. I am forsaken. These constricted, naked walls keep mocking me. I'm blind to a world that does not see me. But I can still hear them...
... they are coming...

Steps, and turns, and swirls. Walls painted with entrails. Floors carpeted with bowels. Hands tainted with blood to lick in squeamish ecstasy. One more twist and the edge punctures again, in an elegant torsion, as if it was a lover's petting, needy and voluptuous. Every adze is devious within its never ending lust for spoils, for it has been made with a single purpose. Without this outcome, it would be pointless. Deprived of its own calling. Dimpled as a bird unable to fly. Hollow as a harp with broken strings. So it must turn, and swirl. Again, and again... and again.

Some time ago, I met someone who had a project for an RPG. He asked if I could come up with pieces for one of the chars. These are some.

Why is everything so complicated? I wish I could just lay down and sleep. I grow more and more tired each day, and no one shares this burden. Whenever I finish a task, there's always another which follows. I don't see the end of it. It's a straight line that streches on. One step after the other. One at a time.
Voices in dark corners want to lead me in another directions. Sometimes it seems like they're trying to keep me safe. Sometimes it doesn't. I don't mind them. At least they break this weary silence and I'm not so alone.
Would like to keep this wound from bleeding but it just won't heal. Perhaps it's too late for that. I don't mind. If it bleeds, it means I'm still alive.