beyond the hills

the days are marked with silence
though the sun paints all beautiful
though the life outside blooms
my house is filled with emptiness
my mouth is filled with what ifs
i punch the walls, i screams at the chairs
the blood on my shins is dry
the chairs can not hear any more than
whatever sky or god you could ever beg to
like a tiny flower in a desert
a button without a shirt
the core of an apple half eaten
i slowly turn into a statue
by the window staring at nothing
and i scramble all my scattered thoughts
piece togheter the picture of your face
everyday grow a little bit more desperate
because once the last of my memories fades
then i go beyond the hills
over the streams
through the thick forests
i will become the moss that
covers your grave