In stygian nights
I do write these words
That stray into verses
From letters to stanzas
From stanzas poetry
Wherein my mind drifts away
On an ocean full of neglected thoughts
In a frigate where words are fought.

As they flow from West to East
Paralled with each heart beat
I sought for more rythm
Before this safehouse is sunk

I have died.
From what I have cried.
For what?
I am not too sure now.
These finger tips tastes every hour that
Slip through these uncertainties.
I have died.
From what I have cried.
What I thought could be
But was never real; and could never be.
I have died.