The murmur
The humming of winds from dusk
Chilling to the bone
A murder of crows sweep the grey skies in flight, slowly smothering the light
Once smooth and lush
The flesh has turned to mush
Its as if time accepts its duty
To make, decline
Pinned hopes in thes things gold, will it shine till we grow old?
The humming of winds from dusk
Chilling to the bone
A murder of crows sweep the grey skies in flight, slowly smothering the light
Once smooth and lush
The flesh has turned to mush
Its as if time accepts its duty
To make, decline
Pinned hopes in thes things gold, will it shine till we grow old?
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