Once I lived inside the mind of death.
He said to die is a trip.
I said can I go?
He replied can you take it?
I said it’s being with wing’s that gives you things or so it was once said.
The trip, I believe, is real.
For it is now winter and I follow the road of snow.
Since the road, which I go, it is that special trip I’ll always know.
The killers of dreams drowned them in silver streams.
The dreams are covered with lies to ourselves.
I ask where is reality.
They say he’s buried under flowers crying for hours.
Runaways from pain, your road leads to insane.
Death, I said, you are my only freedom.
Why am I not dead?
I have no wings.
I can’t fly.
I should die.
I’ve hurt no one but have been cut many times.
As the story goes, lose her, weep for her, but let her fade away because for her there is no tomorrow. It’s the knife of life I am to borrow   I’ll say goodnight to sight and I’ll close my eyes to cry.
In my heart there is one knife too many.