I'm but a dust of freedom;
freedom bored by outside,
who flies me through the walls,
with wallflowers beside;
who I befriended not;
so never did they too,
as if connections define
what's worthwhile or what's fool;
then day by day,
we're flowers on same field;
stars in one galaxy;
soldiers of same guild;
but day by day,
we're strangers more than friends;
we've apathy that weighs
as burdensome as trends;
for carried, we all fly;
over the atmosphere,
of sadness, joy and lies -
we've grown so numb to hear;
and mine's only inside;
never have known 'bout theirs;
maybe they've nothing since;
under those empty stares;
for why the world's so small;
yet we're to find a place,
for ours to only call
as if we bought this place;
this why prefer I do
be flown alone by winds;
under the brights and blues;
before death finely grins.
