I feel the air...
As it brushes my face.
It smells of fear
And of disgrace
Each move
Each step...
Each turn I make
It tears me down
It makes me break.
I'm walking in a crowd
Of doubts...
Among the feeble signs
That cloud
My thoughts...
And trace the lines
Beneath my fingers
Above my head...
I think I'm dead.
It's not as bad
As it appears...
Is there still pain
When there's no tears?
Crowds of Doubts
© Copyright: Янош Фальк, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105020700721
Свидетельство о публикации №105020700721
Рецензии