Gone are the days of blissful nights
Now replaced with an unseeing sky of black
And with this, confusion paves its path of destruction
But laying in its remnants, a single feather of which the colour
Has faded away, leaving only traces of grey
Leaving a thought of hope and happiness
Still existing, but waiting for its wake to a golden sun
And as this is processing, reality is making its way
To the hidden area of the mind and
Everything is tilted and disparate in a way
That makes every bit of volume
Realize
