soup

[grey kat]

The world is like a steaming pot;
the waters on the bottom,
trying to go up.
The dark sky is the lid,
and the dark clouds are the steam.
The birds inside fly and fly,
as soon as it gets cold they
like to fly away.
The warmness they will enjoy
but as soon the lid is shut
they'll die,
die,
die.
Die
like the leaves that fall in autumn
and the grass underneath the snow.
Like the memories of dead ones
all fade.
Fade
into a disappearing shade of
an offwhite couch,
which looks untouched yet old.

 

[neverwas]

liked this one...very morbid very well written aswell.