They say “give it to time, everything shall heal.”
Upheavel, my dead wish, deep resentment to that feel.
For too long I’ve been following the wise.
On a false hope, one fine day my sun shall rise.
The sin of a misplaced hope, everything’s so deceiving.
Check my pulse, check my signs, would you consider me living?
The reality kicks hard, I am reminded in every move.
So I stay dead, dead under my roof.
Besieged by treachery, I writhe in discomfort.
Send an emissary, I was dearly holding onto my north.
For a new hope that was misplaced.
But hey, I’ll be easily replaced.
Murder my dreams, poison my wishes
You could try but I’m never collecting these pieces.
A chilling touch I embrace every February.
Scheduling life desolate and solitary.
Here’s the first part – Of hopes & February