Cool, soft - the air is awake
I am lost and a great innate mistake
The future of ourselves is gone
When the lights go out and we dissipate with the sun
Paintings and bookshelves burn away
But it doesn't even matter at the end of the day
Sailing through an ocean of blue
The unfinished thoughts bleeding too
I am a sinking anchor
Stopped in the way - a quiet cliché
The future of ourselves is gone
When the lights go out and we dissipate with the sun
Paintings and bookshelves burn away
But it doesn't even matter at the end of the day