Are we sick? Or do our eyes just fool our souls because there is not much left for us to save. But I watch, I watch you watch it slip through your hands without a motion of recognition. But your sons and daughters will recognise when the black runs out and there is nothing left but the sun. 

 

But there is another you who needs you to cry. There is another you who needs you to realise they’re going to die.

 

Are we awake? Or is our body as still as stone, for I cannot seem to move from this place. They have our hands nailed to the ground. Do we surrender or do we cut? In slow motion you try to stop the flames. But they will still burn your skin if you get too close.

 

But there is another you who needs you to cry. There is another you who needs you to realise they’re going to die, if you don’t stop this now.