The black canvas sits,
Gathering dust.
Let sleeping ghosts lie,
Leave them kept inside.
Glance quick on the past,
Move toward the rising sun.
Blinding,
Dust floats through the beams.
If I could see where I was headed,
Would I keep walking?
I guess this is where we find,
If we were meant to be.
Turning to the moon,
Never hurt this much.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 4:34 AM UTC
The black canvas sits,
Gathering dust.
Let sleeping ghosts lie,
Leave them kept inside.
Glance quick on the past,
Move toward the rising sun.
Blinding,
Dust floats through the beams.
If I could see where I was headed,
Would I keep walking?
I guess this is where we find,
If we were meant to be.
Turning to the moon,
Never hurt this much.
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