Look to the sad little boy in the corner of a small, dark room. His tired and troubled gaze fixed on the floor, so close to breaking. By himself but never alone, his head swims with a thousand ghosts. The Verse-chorus-verse of mockery, abandonment, abuse. Tick-tock, the hands of the clock. Seasons change inside his mind. The icy November storm clouds are just overhead and as they swell to they swell to their bursting point, the last soft light of childhood leaves his eyes.
He cries tears of lead and his sobs boom like thunder. The strong and the proud scatter before the swell.