I want to brush the leaves of colossal trees
And dash right through the summer breeze
But this thing called a planet is long dead
And the precious wind no longer turns its head.
Yes this world came to an end a long time ago,
But I still chase the ghosts that wonder alone.
I reach out to them and dream and dream and dream.
Yet they catch my arms and I scream and scream and scream.
The flowers have all but lost their fragance
But you can call me a phantom florist with too much patience,
Because I'll wait here till the flowers bloom,
And it ultimately will send me to my doom.
I can tell the pens run out of ink,
But not my brain, not how I think,
I'll try and make words out of acid rain.
But that's exactly what they want, and I've fallen for it, yet again.
