Sometimes it feels-
All I do,
Is paint over the scars.
In silence I conceal,
What's real,
And who we are.
So, Here's to the wounds-
That won't heal,
As I steal-
Words that'll be my last.
From the grave of my dreams,
That I've seen-
Behind an ashen'd mask.
As ash kiss the air-
It's everywhere,
Like a drifting boat-
With no mast.
Standing on the edge,
Of what I see,
Of what is-
Miles ahead and in past.
Reflections of what was,
When I was found,
And how I got lost.
Made and left to rot,
In the glory I did bask.
As the hour slips away,
A question remains-
I never remembered to ask.
And then I realize,
As I close my eyes-
I was never meant to last.