A flower, waiting to unfold, living, self deceiving,
surrounded by a cold,
forcibly poured into a sensible mold, behold a story must be
told,
a quest for glory, a hunt for lost gold.
For lust, for showing trust, for having to crack open an
overgrown crust, preventing warm sun beams who turn out a
must, from reaching through, in skies, crystal blue,
from penetrating the darkness, for brightness deludes.
Depending on a will of youth, hidden motives, and slippery
truths, this maze,
this aching daze, truly a fucked up phase, a phase who must
be over thrown,
a doorway to well known oblivion, to the bright red gem
forgotten in the gray
matte stone.
The flower is alone, but the urge is just too strong, no
escape from hanging on to this,
the need to feel belonged and missed, to prove for once,
emerge from all this mist the flower seems to have been
hiding in so long.

So long... too fucking long the flower had forgotten what
it's like to feel the warm kiss of a sun beam and to show
the colors the beautiful colors the flower always kept
inside the storm that went inside while on the outside like
reversed tornado it's quiet and it's cold.