It flows through the veins of the forgotten.
It lives, yet has not taken air in years.
It is ashen of colour,
Hard-hearted of thought,
It lies dormant until it doesn't.
It feels lonely.
You mean it makes them feel lonely?
No. It makes them feel loved,
For feelings are love,
Even the ashen ones.

It flows through the veins of the forgotten
Where the sun will never reach it
But every now and then
A wind breaks through
And brings autumn leaves
Or spring blossoms
Violet snow
And for a day it exists in colours
And on the quiet days
It recalls