Breaking the mold of solidarity,
Open my eyes wake up.
Improving an impossibility,
Talk to a reflection.
Why do we utterly fail or succeed,
Eating softly from a tree.
An endless cycle, sun rises, passing indeed,
Go back to sleep, you’re free.
Oh, I weakly persist to wipe the fog-stained mirror,
The yellow smile, the dull skin, the invisible is never clearer.
I open my mouth, the moans of the sea, why is it I never be?
I find the sorrow swiftly washes over me, but my love, it aches softly,
I’ll never look at that wooden empty chair, where a white glow solemnly sits there.
I whine, I moan, but my life, will never grow, never? I don’t think so.
An immeasurable guilt,
Of crossing the lust crossroads.
I wish not to think unjustly,
It is simpler for hearts of stone.
Make an excuse, summon snow.
The letter I wrote, only I know.
Crying is the inane thought.
No, I weep for nothing that you or I sought.
All I see is a visage,
What I work for, a mirage.
Look at a photo of my path,
Tell me it’s fine, not a wrath.
.
Now let me stay a while,
Let me live, naive child.
Hold that sharp arrow, arise,
Don’t bury me under your lies.
.
Oh, that shovel hits the ground,
You laugh, while hearts are not around.
Step on this wretched book of life
And squander in our malicious trite.
Living in a jail, one where you are free
Decisions are concealed, even with a decree.
An everlasting cycle, with the hope of an ending green light.
The ending of my trial, the conclusion of my sentence, ends all in smite.
What was this crime, the one deriving from innocence,
But wait, there was no sign of the incidence.
Look back, a silhouette of precedence, the past.
Depression is to look back, pondering the vacancy of occurrence.
Through the cracks, the future, the impending permanence.
Consummation is to look forward, simply viewing past as reference.
For vanity and splendor to subsist, reflection truly lies in the future,
An effortless task.
To hide the component of love,
Is to make it absent from life.
Better is to exist and forget,
Than to misrecollect the time.
The time in which consists.
Of nothing and an enriched sublime.
The time in which I can remember,
Is the time we did not prosper.
Is it explainable to eradicate unreasonable emotion?
The instance of infatuation that lasts ever so briefly,
That love exists between nonexistence is an inane notion.
One look, one conversation, there is no connection, none measly,
Whether this blink of ardor is more of shallow nature,
Is it fate, is it destiny?
Or in fact is it just a small dose of a feeling greater,
I’ll think back to this time, but in the end, it is but a fading melody.
If you say you can speak softly
Then why then can you not write to me
I cannot say that I am stuck
Next to these roses and bushes
But the blindness is caused
By the thought of gravel in your words
The predatory bird flies and so it goes
But I want to know if it’s love
Is it above all things to take the role of
The crow?
But is it time that the silence stays home.
