Brush over the wall
The paints speaks in bolds
The rouge turns to pale
White graves, preaching false prayers
The world believes, all, counting the layers
A sick bed, a crossed bird, a fire wall
The skeletons are already burn
Hidden secrets, thirsty furnaces
A calendar with ticking deaths
Time passes like hurricanes
every second is a carrier
momentary, we are lost, inferior
A screaming heart
covered in bleeding thoughts
A death spade, hidden behind the cupboards
Brush over the wall
The paints speaks in folds
The blue turns to frail
