The skies have stories to tell,
Pouring drops of rain from grey clouds,
They see the world from a bird’s point of view,
A city that once blushed in green,
Where kindness once roamed the streets,
Now the dead have made their home.
Millions of people who’ve forgotten all that matters,
The sound of their heartbeats lost in the noise,
The living are dead on the inside,
Chasing things that doesn’t bring happiness,
Living a life that knows no meaning,
Where dreams are trampled under nightmares.
There’s still a little beauty left,
In trees that flower under the scorching sun,
In the drizzling rain on a cloudy day,
But what difference can it make to a person,
Who has blinded himself in the dark,
And hasn’t heard the faint whispers of his soul,
Smothered under the infinite burden of expectations,
Racing a clock that never stops.
How would they know that the skies too cry,
They Mourn the dead existing in the living,
Souls are meant to be set free,
Flowers are meant to bloom and fall,
You are supposed to live before you die,
That’s the cycle of life!