It flies away
without any trace
and the heart
becomes hollow
once more...
because it's fragile
like paintings done
by those artists
we wish we could be.
But, do you remember
when we said,
"I love you,"
and you thought
that we'd endure?
Everything we had
made the stars fall
from the darkness.
The moon, shining,
cried its eyes out
while melancholy
flowers hid their
true colors
after that feeling,
in all its grandeur,
scorched the very
minds it once inspired.
Now our artists
seem so obsolete
Their paintings
washed out,
yet the figures within
scream for that
emotion, now lost.
