I'm abandoned just like a forgotten flower, enclosed in burning frost.
There enrises my inner banshee, wailing "I'm through!"
There seems to be no excuses for anybody I have lost,
even though it's not my fault, I'm falling away without a clue.
I suppose the world is pathetic, beyond a passion's flare.
There goes nature's fathom, which we think of only timeless, but ever to cease.
Is that wrong of us to think of it as only anumber? Do we dare?
But if we don't defy our barriers, are we inhuman for no promised lease?
We went beyond what we were supposed to do, trying to get those autumn peaches past december.
No more is the color of life in my world.
Have we tried to hard to link ourselves with writings that are swirled,
or are we only burning in our vivid embers?
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