Inches above the ground
Staring from this room of glass
These distant fields
I reach, but cannot touch
Gliding fast, so close, yet far
Cold glass, seasons pass
And as the sun turns black
With my heart again it will unite
And the fields will burn, and die
And live again, and I
Will go on, and ask
Do my eyes sin, or is it I
Who give in too fast
To the warmth of hell.



(mizman)