Can it be possible
To forget what it is to be?
Can this feeling in my heart
Be real enough to be possible?
Have I truly forgotten everything?
The wind on my face is an image
And the song of the birds touch.
The valley stretching before my vision
Music to these ears...
That dare not long to hear
Can you not see this paint,
The one of reds and blacks
The one I dare paint the sky with?
Can you not feel it seep
"through my fingers,
To the deep"
deep deep deep of your soul?
The lost place of childhood?
The place where thou dare weep?
Is it possible to be aware that this heart of mine,
O how it screams,
Feels not a damn thing?
Then what is this merciless misery
Dare chokes my throat closed?
Perhaps...
I should write something beautiful,
now that these woes have parted,
and I am left with
