Lament for the Damned

The secret remains. 
Every riddle ridiculed with another,
until the dark deed is done.
The pounding grows nearer with each passing second.
One more nail in the box,
Manifested by the twisted twilight hours of thinking, sitting, twitching,
Like butter in a heated glass clinging to original form,
Uttering truths no longer true.
The crimson stain on white appears and vanishes in visual spasms.
There is no freedom from the thoughts,
No way to save the mind which refuses to stop
No more sunrise or sunset,
Just this,
My love,
My sweet lament