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1 min 353 1 min 353

The scorching sun or the brumal winter

Lays a population who wish something more

Who wanted themselves to be adored

Yet the flowers have shunned them


They were hardened by the concrete forest

Yet they are ever so brittle from their void

Opportunity bleeds away before the arrival

Thus, living the life of melancholy and moroseness


They too feel love, they too feel hate

They too laugh but also, they too weep

They are rancorous yet they have a heart

I may not wail for them but only show my empathy


Some are genuine and some are made

Rags to riches and riches to rags

What stories chooses them to tell

A tale of reality or the neverland


But it will always make me wonder

What are they here for?

Why are they here for?

Who will bury them once they die?

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