Silence doesn't bring me complacency like it used too,
Rather a sense of inevitable doom that sits on the tip of my tongue,
And tastes rather bitter.
This I'm unable to swallow, it seems.
No amount of water can relinquish the taste.
Death is a pleasure,
I suppose,
Greedy hands reach for anything solid,
What I grasp for is only melodic,
And peaceful,
A lullaby made of dreams that won't haunt me for an eternity to come,
Do tell me where I go,
And why I'm aching so to be alone,
Yet scared of what's to come of my own downfall.
Too tired to carry on,
On that highway,
a pretty sunset it was that night.
A single dandelion in the field,
That grew there maybe just for me to find.
A single wish,
Give me something to live for.
Maybe,
this was not what I meant.