The smell of oil paint;
I'm ready to fly
home.

My wings are clipped,
my lungs full of water.
No, I don't need you.

My fingers are numb from holding on,
I'm letting go.

It's easier falling out of the sky
flying beneath your rays had grown old.

You sold my wings,
I'm drowning.

Gasping for air, gasping for air,
push me further down.

The sound of your rustling wings,
surrounded by water,
I'm going
home.