Hope.
Why did the angels reciprocate my love?
Maybe it was me,
Certainty.
I see blank pages in front of me, a canvas been cleaned,
So nothing to see.
An artist's dream nigh nightmare it seems,
So no one to bleed
Or sweep up the trees down on their knees
Suffocated in fire under billows of smoke.
And the willow oak, who can't feed herself with her own soaking tears.
It's the future she fears,
and fears
and fears
and sells her love for the love of a cheer.
And her children will love her in fear of a day
When she will not play anymore.
When she's cold, old, and whether heaven or hell,
Death takes its due toll.
Cycle One carries on,
Cycle Two stays true,
Cycle Three asks for another trip to the zoo.
He closes by asking,
Would you?
Or is it too rude?
