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The wind picks up and the horizon turns burgundy red
The people of this city scurry to their expensive cars
Racing to get home to see the kids, to finish the game, for dinner.
But what they don’t see
Watery Sight at times of lonesome Nights,
To Ponder,
To Whimper of tomorrow’s whispers and what will be in store
Or if I’ll mourn.
Boiled blood, tears are shed and burn to nothing
You wouldn't think that it would be this hard to listen to your own thoughts and your own heart.
The silence doesn't help, it only makes it worse.
The silence makes my thoughts lonely, makes my mind race.
