Misery

I came to see you and your face of cards.
But I sought what was wrong and missed by yards.
Mist envelops the eye of the holder.
The pictures of death are locked in a folder.

Men in brown coats are drawing ever closer.
But I sketch my lies like a composer.
In turn each will pay their debt.
Different aces in a payback set.

With charred memories of what held most.
I find that my old self is naught but a ghost.
Sometimes I find that if I dig deeper.
All I will find is the grim reaper.

Silently dead but ever alive,
I keep my head up, my hand on my scythe.
But yet they still follow with coats billowing faster.
All they will find is that I am their master.

Unfittingly evil for what lays inside.
My actions are somewhat sitting aside.
I can feel them live up to what they have chosen.
My body yet a home for my brain is frozen.

Somebody change my account of direction.
That maybe I should commit to inspection.
Shouting my murders, into the night.
I sit in my room, in midst of this plight.