In his life he had twelve pocket knives
He carried them around with assurance
But not once did he use them—
In Colossus City, the knife used you.

A cold memory it was once for him
To sit on the ground and appreciate life
Colossus City had left behind years of happiness
But no one wanted to leave, sometimes not even himself.

The rain was a friendly stranger
It occurred to him in dreams
Only now was it in Colossus City
Sending raindrops the size of hail.

In the woods lay a deserted mountain
It waited for a tormented man
You could drop everything else
Just to live there, covered in happiness.