Burnt Tulips
Days pass, nights are cold,
My eyes reflect the shine of the gold.
Silver hairs all over. Yes I'm old,
Wisdom falls from each skinfold.
But, I do have regrets and guilt,
Watching the moon, I cry under quilts.
Hiding behind the curtains of my faith,
Facing devils as the clock strikes eight.
I miss his love and warmth at times,
But I got to sing, my boy, I need rhymes.
Things die a slow death, o' holy child.
It's all grey forest, no gods exist in the wild.
Nothing holds any meaning,
Maybe, I am searching something,
Which I can't have.
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