I desire to create,
What remains unperceived,
Unrepairable faith in it's authentic self,
Unscathed by anothers opinion or morals,
Their hopes and desires,
The birth of such a rebellious idea remains unearthed,
I want it raw,
But God despises it,
The idea of being challenged,
So all left of my thoughts is the binding vision of tomorrow,
A vision of hope,
That ensues an ameliorating repercussion on my mental capacity,
Concluding the idea of a saviour,
And Of my passion and greed,
Greed to learn something I shall never master,

My heart is stuck in time,
Praying that in all hope lost ,
a purpose it finds,
It doesn't beat,
It's became painfully boring and quite as a mime,
Avid for a pulse,
That alligns,
Encompassed by fear and dread,
It doesn't wish to leave whats familiar, behind
Shall it ever find gratitude in discomfort of time?
Or shall it face the unfathomable regret of a lifetime,
Is it stuck in repentance or greed?
In both ways it can't have what it needs ,
Induced by the futile hopes of time ,
It wishes to be more of a crow than a mime,
And hum it's own tune ,
Thats sorrowful yet refined,
A raw tune upon which others are adversity inclined,
Steadfast he continues wishing it's their music palette that's unrefined,
He sings,
Until a salivation is unearthed,
Until the trees dance and harmonize to his broken tune,
Alas,
He finds himself deluded,
In hopes ,
Someone would discern his tune to be a pleasant produce of time ,

Shall the cries of the dead be heard?
When the world quites down,
Do the weeping winds coax their pain?
Seeping the ground for their comfort,
Will the rain find it's purpose then?
Will it be happy knowing it's not just a source of shallow joy for the living?
Will the clouds stop crying?
Out of pity for the dead,
once alive,
Does the sun apprise us of the regret of the day before or the one ahead,
Does it pity the ones it doesn't serve,
The ones dead

I sight in vain,
the cause of my distain,
A slur of hope to be washed away
by the pain,
Espoused to unfortune,
I weep and weep,
For the love I find,
is the one I cannot Keep

Will I find you in Spring?
Immersed in profound happiness,
Or do I look for you in autumn?
In the depths of my despair,
Hollow and brittle,
Like the leaves.