It's a thought, It's real life.

Sun beams seem to miss me when I walk under cloudless skies.
Wine becomes water in my everyday living epitaph.

There used to be a horizon, of golden and pink embers that touched my soul.
Realization has turned it into the burning depths of my dying desires.

Flying arrows juxtapose the contours of my body.
Herding my limbs into folded pieces of crimson cloth.

I could go on.
However it would just become a series;
Dramatics.
For thousands of sonnets.