But how the realisation of my very existence
has grown like flowers, yet none beautiful.
I have somehow stopped knowing myself
long ago, yet I thought I did find me
just yesterday, but I assume I was only wrong;
For it was a pretending song.
I think of my childhood hours
proceeding to days, to years,
and how they won’t cease to haunt
deep inside of me,  screaming
from locked up and shaky towers,
far up in an unknown pointy castle
built of fragile flesh - a stupid body.
But, oh, to only have the key to these doors,
to find my breath again longing for;
to feel my heart once more throbbing for
that what I once thought was everything -
the things that now seem nothing.