Busted

A broken man swept away with a family broom
A statue of gloom sits all day in memory's dusty room
Cobwebs gather on a rusty clock that only runs backwards
Thoughts that he'd rather were rocks, put in his exact words

Here night comes too soon and the sun never raises
On the dark side of the moon at blackness he gazes
Eclipsed shadows flow as spilt ink on paper
A stagnant mind nothing but vapor