So many faces I do follow, so many
Fading pens, so many writing truths
I read not โ anything, anymore.
So many faces lost, silent voices
Under grey skies, perhaps lost
In the infinite stream, or just muted
By pressures, silenced by envy, or
Killed by Death.
So many times regrets take over
A susceptible mind, we shake
And we shiver, we stop and we stare
Into an abyss so dark and so dreary
We end up calling it home.
