Destitute ice where the soul should be
Replaced before the heart could ever speak
In each, melancholy bloomed infinitely
Words to paint the hymn of your eyes

Fruits of labor lie just across the steep
But when the last step to the fight oughts,
To deliver the expected, it would not
Maybe melancholy since then held you dear

Was thinking of newness frightened you?
With the endless possibility of disaster,
Aside from the chance of another great fall
Does newness finally caught up to you?

When fingers are pointed, you shrivelled
Maybe because of those destitute eyes
Confidently staring just across the steep
Pointing fingers at a reflection in the mirror