earnest moth
Sometimes
The sunrise
bleeds so dry
Yet,
It is us
Who feels most cold
Sometimes
The breeze blows
So damn hard
Yet,
In spite of our sway,
We feel less moved
Sometimes,
From yappers;
Each of our thoughts drown
Yet,
In the depths
Muffled, they sound
Sometimes at home,
We are alone
And the silence whispers
Uneasy things...
The voices grow louder
To shush any bliss
Sometimes...
At night
The stars are less bright
Like a black drop's glint
That paints our life:
Most of it is dark indeed
Yet...
We stare at the sparkles
To admire the light
hexed relic
empty hemlock