The hounds of the graveyard are restless,
as the path of the cemetery looks treacherous.
The crosses of the grave stood tall,
as I walk among the dead tulips call.
The darkness resembles a long melancholy.
The bottle of whisky seems familiar to me,
as I step down from the stairs of the cemetery.
The fallen tulip meant nothing to me.
I remember my long lost past,
as the pensive sadness shackles my heart.
Now the meadows are all strange to me,
as we both walk now on fallen tulips call.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 7:52 AM UTC
The hounds of the graveyard are restless,
as the path of the cemetery looks treacherous.
The crosses of the grave stood tall,
as I walk among the dead tulips call.
The darkness resembles a long melancholy.
The bottle of whisky seems familiar to me,
as I step down from the stairs of the cemetery.
The fallen tulip meant nothing to me.
I remember my long lost past,
as the pensive sadness shackles my heart.
Now the meadows are all strange to me,
as we both walk now on fallen tulips call.
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