I am not your friend

Bear a torch

Bring the  light

Explore the caverns of my mind

A craven, hollow place

Child's machine filled with cobwebs

Take away everything callow and new

I promise I am on the mend

Trying to be a man who can feel

Burn my house to the ground

Trapped with in the wind'

Like tired grass of the fields

Forget your promise to love me

Kissing cold lips ever so softly

The space caught between us

In my portrait of cracked and faded dreams

A beautiful creature that loves to lack

Hallowed in soulful eyes

No longer burdened by the joy of seeing

Author's Note

First one I've posted on here in a while. I'd describe being a writer as being like a rock in the ocean. The tide wears and shapes us into whatever final form we deserve. The catalyst to out metamorphosis lies within man's mortal enemy: time. Growing old so a writer's soul can mature. What a beautiful contradiction.