What are we doing stifling flames,
Taming the wilderness with acceptance,
Our breathing is a stale pattern,
Our actions are just where the currents send us.

The river doomed to have only one shore,
And the boats sail to infinity,
But when the drought hits town,
All the sailors part for the sea.

Art became something we're used to,
A design where every curve has to fit,
Bold colors always mismatch,
Cause they just make the eyes upset.

So every candle smells of forgiveness,
Every night a canvas for a new excuse,
But it might be a month, a year, or ten,
When the paper can no longer be of use.