#35

 
Alone.

A low sound ripping through the air.
A grey crown I may wear upon my head.
The gradient shifts slowly yet effortlessly in my stead.
Alone now slipping past the bed.
Or is it a tomb?
Not all will see grey,
But all will hear it.
Not long to feel days,
Somehow perceive it?
Time betrays me.
Lies portray weak.
Why implore things,
When grey is discrete?
The glass has turned to grey,
The sea is made of glass.
The sea returns the days,
The days make up the past.

Alone.

A skill to warm every heart in need.
The unfindable key.
Glass breaker, I trust you will find it in time.
-the low sound resounds.