I love to sit in silence,
cause my verses will never quantify what pain is,
Neither will your wounds heal.
Nor will I ever be able to extract scents of forever.
I'm a living dead.
Sitting in silence
I go through the things in my head.
I won't be able to define peace,
But the kindness of yours,
The warmth of yours,
And the voice of yours
is enough to make a deal soul bloom.
Your are like a bridge,
connecting the shores.
You are painting,
Will you let me be a canvas?
and consider my shaodws as echoes
the dead poets painted,