There are slivers of my heart Which fly and soar high Only to crash and bloodily weep As they land, On that stage Where I will never be Or that page Where my words will never speak Or the summer lost from sight by tears of silly endeavours Or the sweet little spring in between the desert which dries faster than I can run
Oh this emptiness like between the vase and the shrivelled flowers within Dried now, a thing of past but which once came from someone as a beautiful present.