I never took a chance to say
that the days in solitude were dark and drenched in grey
you were my torchlight through
a dreary forest
with a map a blindman drew
this times with you will never end
at least that is what I pretend
to keep myself from falling into self-detest
but it’s getting harder to keep up with it
with every second passed
and now it feels like autumn takes
back the joy that summer gave
and as I sit on the deathbed of this day
I remember the times in may
when every second made the promise
of a morrow without doubt
and now I’m thrown back to where I started
a restless flycatcher, numbed out.
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