Three hundred sixty five days has passed
Still under the tree I wait
I would no more dare to ask
To myself that is fading away
When did the sky turn gray?
Or are my eyes simply losing it
A memory of each day
Slowly weakens a heartbeat
This is a battle
And it is your final last call
As to pieces I shatter
can you make it... before I fall
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 9:53 PM UTC
Three hundred sixty five days has passed
Still under the tree I wait
I would no more dare to ask
To myself that is fading away
When did the sky turn gray?
Or are my eyes simply losing it
A memory of each day
Slowly weakens a heartbeat
This is a battle
And it is your final last call
As to pieces I shatter
can you make it... before I fall
Request permission to use this poem