Ashes or butterflies?
Who knows? I’m not sure.
I cant tell the difference anymore.
Cold flesh I cling to,
But it is only my own.
Silent solitude is the only way I’ve ever known.
To be far from the sea,
To be nothing but a wisp in the wind,
Oh no, I’m thinking to much again.
To the sky, a spec.
To the world, unknown.
Things seem much more distant when you are alone.
My words haven’t had this much weight in so long.
I suppose it’s about time my voice grew more strong.
No longer cast a shadow of nothing,
No longer that placid ghost,
The violent throb in my chest is the power I cherish most.
Feet bare in the dirt,
With nails clawing the ground,
Looking for more of what I already found.
Flies on my face,
Caresses I can’t feel,
What’s real is fake, and fake is real.
Take me down to the cellar,
Pull the wool over my eyes,
No matter what, I can still see the skies.
What are they for?
Actions are better, they mean so much more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.