where we phase into some form of guilt
oh sun, dance us into a different stage of being
who cares anyway? aren't we all just ghosts?
some form of illusion painted by someone else's brush?
why are the bristles stuck on the canvas?
our portrait was painted in pain.
if I could make you something you want to be, I would
I am wounded, with scars so deep, you can see my fear
you are gone, I am only hoping to save a breath.
capture the moment you left, and hold it in place.
something tells, describes to me, that this is death,
and worse than life itself, never ending, everlasting
infinity is four and less than three
we are three now.
who watches the clouds fall from the sky?
why is there nobody to pick up my feet, as I try to find myself?
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