if life is an auction and conscience is the item, angels and demons would be the bidders.

for my mistakes are nothing but a curse.

for a curse explains this lousy streak of bad luck.

nonetheless, 'bad luck' would be the most pathetic excuse.

it is not my time now, not yet at least.

there are no locked doors in this place I call home.

but there are windows that spell 'opportunities'

and endless hallways with no light fixtures.

if I'm no where to be found, you shouldn't panic.
I might just be up in the attic, passing time gazing at the stars.

 preoccupied with my trusty telescope.

an ungrateful sinner's life is like a colourless kaleidoscope.

no matter how much he turns all he sees are shades of grey.

shades of grey that cloud his judgement.

for this brings the devil himself a sense of excitement.

p.s.: I've come to my senses, that I've become senseless.