The heart beats,
the soul lives—
eyes unchained from glasses,
reality keeps on dancing.
Songs without worry,
jealousy swimming
in a pool filled with apathy.
Graves for dreams.
Mourning comes too early,
so does the morning
of no new beginning.
Quietly echoing into the void—
uncherished, unloved.
No spirit feels cold
within bottles
no child could reach.
“Too early,”
one old flame spoke.
“Too late,”
said another spark, ringing.
No dreamer wakes the same
after the first waking goes unnoticed.
We are all dead,
long before our end.
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