sometimes i think we are born to die,
a life of living, a desparate urge to satisfy that which makes us cry.
’tis not solid this that I’m giving;
maybe my soul is heavy tonight, it dreams to heaven so silently though,
as if to not wake the mind that goes,
so quietly beneath this sky.
My dear from places i have not been,
and places i thus have not seen,
have you the key, my lifes possesion,
that without it, my souls ommision?
Perhaps we where born to cry, and it it not thus to die,
perhaps in thought i trully don’t know but somehow i think it is so.