Its floating away,
an another dismay.
"You never know the blood is cold,
Until you bleed your own."
If My thoughts is a fire,
I will burn myself.
And If death's a prior,
The story will be on shelf.
Light the lantern in the room,
hear the winds crawling with their hymn.
Take a story and read it to moon,
and sun won't say, you are mean.
Then I will close my eyes,
letting my words and world collide,
And air will creep out of my lungs,
Start of an end, It has begun.
