The little red thing
The look on their faces. I won't forget them.
The stranger look. What was I thinking,
To think that they were more than strangers.
Perhaps I'm too naive and imprudent.
All the hopes and vision will stay within,
Hidden somewhere within.
The little rock was jagged.
It meant to scratch and hurt.
The little jagged rock couldn't care less,
Not when you are scratched, not when you're bleeding.
What mattered to the rock was just itself,
While you bleed to your death.
When you open your mouth, nothing comes.
The routine continues for the poor red thing.
Except that it is already dead, a walking dead.
The stranger look. What was I thinking,
To think that they were more than strangers.
Perhaps I'm too naive and imprudent.
All the hopes and vision will stay within,
Hidden somewhere within.
The little rock was jagged.
It meant to scratch and hurt.
The little jagged rock couldn't care less,
Not when you are scratched, not when you're bleeding.
What mattered to the rock was just itself,
While you bleed to your death.
When you open your mouth, nothing comes.
The routine continues for the poor red thing.
Except that it is already dead, a walking dead.