Empty Sink, still stained Red

down the hall, there is a porcelain room,
where the empty sink is still stained red.
the victim that it's taken
lies in comas, permanently unshaken.
but he doesn't mind whether he's alive or dead.
and he has a wife who sits by his bed every night,
wondering what it is she did wrong, or forgot
to do right.
but it's not her fault, yet not really his.
just another victim to the question of what life really is.

droned by the drugs that they served him up.
they told him, "life could be better."
so trusting of that yellowed paper
centered on the wall,
that he believed in and followed
the doctor's every beckoning call.
but life wasn't better.
he stood there confused and with his ego bruised,
choking back those tears, bound-for-shoes.
not out of vanity, not out of pride, just out of the fear
that he might find... that no body here cared.

well knives cut deep. they sever hearts,
even when it's just an arm they carve.
there he laid open like a turkey, with a lack of blood.
filled with Wild Turkey, and those sleeping drugs,
a deadly combo plus his wounds.
his death could never come too soon.
because it was just his way to think,
'i can't live to see that blood-stained sink.'

down the hall, in their bed, his wife slept,
so unaware of the tears that he never wept,
which now flowed a dark hue of red,
running down the hall from his wrist.
in the morning she awoke
with that taste on her breathe
of a lover not kissed,
as his cold blood was wept.

and now, in his head, he is thinking,
"well fuck, here i am laying,
all these tubes coming out of me.
i couldn't kill my sick brain,
just my wife's soul and my frail body."
back at home, the hall's taken on
the most horrible smell.
it screams,
"death toll: two halves, thus one whole.
but there's still two here, trapped in
THIS HELL."