Shades and hues, in his mind, had always run
But the colours had been fading of late
Pity the lad, a victim of cruel games of 'ate
Fresh as yesterday, were the memories of that red
He stood frozen in his tracks as his mother bled
He trembled at the mention of the blazing fire
That'd burnt his hand while lighting his father's pyre
However much he tried, he couldn't forget that night
That night when his brother had come, body draped in white
He craved for the colours to come back in his life
He yearned for a way to escape this strife
'Is this what I am destined to be? Is this what I wanted to be?'
Thinking thus, he drove to the bridge over the sea
Hardly for a minute, he stood there without a clue
The next day, his body was fished out of the blue
A tragic artist in him is what all of us see
Not the perfect murderer he wanted to be
Guard yourself against yourself, mate
For they have never been cool, those games of hate!
