Dull razor-blades are the most dangerous kind

I haven't really been in the mood to write lengthy essays on topics philosophical, and telling the unwashed masses (that's you, dear reader) about my personal life strikes me as somehow lame. So instead you get random poetry. I suggest you imagine this as me giving vent to my inner goth, though that would be completely the wrong idea.

I'm on the road to nowhere --
She's a dry and dusty trail.
The snakes are sleeping, hiding
from the morning's wintry gale.
My shack is cold and empty,
The fields dark and gray;
I searched the grass all morning
But gave up and left midday.

The lightning kissed the mountains,
Shafts of red dust traced its path.
Dry thunder called the rainclouds
To quench the noonday wrath.
It rushed along the gutters
Washing dust from swollen feet.
I was hiding in the shadows
to escape the summer's heat.

The siren voices squealing:
Shafts of light and shadow call.
The rose and shattered gleaming
Throws grim patterns on the wall.
Pale blue voices darkly whisper
An ecstatic, frenzied wish --
The snakes of summer hissing
Warn of poison's sweet death kiss.

The road grows ever wider
Her end yet hides, unclear.
The sun grows ever brighter
Beaming blinding rays of fear.
To dusk and all her thunder and
black night with all her drums,
Defiantly I chant, that joy
will in the morning come.

Let me be clear that it's not about very much. I was in a bad mood at the time, though, so I guess you can say it's about being in a bad mood. Enjoy.