Topple

Where whispers of ancestors fade away
And such a cold wind
That lives and gathers dust
On seven golden skulls

Around them lie
Towers of paper
With words, all the words
Left to rot
To transform into mold

Time held its breath when I took a step
The reality check
Is a beating heart and flowing blood
Light is a bastard, lying right in the eyes

Demise is a simple word. But I'm still holding on
I simply transgress. Not like this
Landscape covered with

Fog...

Let me out. Let me get old. Let me die

If someone were here, they would say it was just a dream. Really? Is that a thing? Maybe I was chosen to swim through the colors of reality

I'm not going to die being old