Far far away. Things you should see
upon a glass bottle, rang clear.
As vision blurred, so do I.
Paper hearts are so fragile.
Often we see creases within each crease
It rang shrilly, among the midst
of the ding a ling bottle smashes.
I'm making no sense.
I'm counting myself on the only constant
for i believe, a foundation that never waiver
will be the faith that never shake.
I find with each day that past,
we are creeping closer.
but at the same time, we're drifting off.
tell me why then do we hold so close
inconsistencies in our lives?
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