Not True

My soul is walking through a meadow, where the grass is like blades of steel. They cut deep and leave my wounds to bleed, these are wounds that may never heal. there are winds whispering around me, saying softly do without despair, as flowers of hate drown out the whispers, with evil shouts of we never have cared. when you cannot look into the luminous moons, or speak true words of love, then it is of love you will never speak, for your words are to the arrow stricken heart of a dove. suddenly everything's gone with no wind. flowers of hate have gone too, My body knows not of what sound it should make, for when you say you will listen your words are not true.