Anticipating my demise,
no time to think about escape.
I don't think i can operate my fate,
I don't feel i can disobey my ways.

I am but a wolf in sheep's clothing.
I am but a trace of knowing.

I walk the streets at night under orange lights,
it's where i feel the most,
and I roam
because I'm a lost star and I don't need a home,
I only need the dark part of my heart.

When I skim through cafés
and poems of better days
I can't disagree
that the tides in which I reside
are awfully fond of me.