"The Harvest of Words"
In thoughts of whom I'm used to be
I've tried to fix my head.
Believing stories inside me
I'm slowly getting mad.
So may be in my weak hands were
unproper instruments and threads
that cannot bring the wishful cure
without a payment from the dead.
And may be I should kill my dreams
just with the aim to look
at what will happen with my limbs.
Will be emotions away took?
Blind trees are standing as they hold
at their heads something bad
for not enough I was once bold,
a wasteful followed fad.
The closest eyes stared from a glance -
so tell me I am wrong,
I've sinned. I know that at a chance
I'm breathing wretched among.
Dumb silence's streaming from deep caves -
too often masks we wore.
No truthful sorrow at the graves.
And innocent we never were.
(c) Dust of Reason
photo by www.deviantart.com/faultymind