I live in a house,
that is not my home.
With pictures of smiling faces
that are not my own.
Surrounded by figures
but feel so alone.
So very vacuous
is this iron throne.

I live in a house
that is not my home.
A silence so heavy,
it hurts.

I will place the promise of tomorrow

on your lips.

They will first taste of cyclones in my breath.

Then they will taste of desperate dying breath.

The will taste of light and of blindness.

They will taste of the dreams that slip from your eyes.

They will taste of the skin that

we are yet to grow.

They taste of things

that we are yet to lose.

I will place the promise of tomorrow

on your lips,

that will soon be your yesterday.

My promise will be memory of

passing trains and fading love.