The diverse directions come to pass,
While good things always go so fast.
A casted shadow driven by your mind,
And the lack of air, means it’s time.
The soulless being is drowned by love,
For the loss of heart, will fly like a dove.
Wallowing pity is gone to those that end last,
And the room of the dying soul creates a draft.
The loss of feeling, feels so fine,
I still can’t find the straight and narrow line.
A room filled of useless stuff,
Like the life we live, that’s never enough