The winds, the tides —
are against me.
So sunny, yet the cloud —
Shrouds the sunlight meant me.
The chirping birds —
they're wielding wicked wings.
the roses —
when I smell it, it withers.
the night, the moon —
Why is it blue?
my soul —
it's black, will you touch it?
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
The winds, the tides —
are against me.
So sunny, yet the cloud —
Shrouds the sunlight meant me.
The chirping birds —
they're wielding wicked wings.
the roses —
when I smell it, it withers.
the night, the moon —
Why is it blue?
my soul —
it's black, will you touch it?
