Hurting and flashing all day,
sunlight rushing into a yellow bay.
Crumbling under the sidewalk,
trying to get rid of the mad hawk.
Deep in the core of the forest,
trying to reach the love of the florist.
Stirring into the heart of the insignificant shore,
the one that they proudly call home.
Under the light of a star,
glittering the brightest of the sparks,
showing the amber of their souls,
more than they actually should.
They are all like a honeycomb,
waiting to stare,
the highest mountain on planet Earth.
Forever blind and unable to sing,
each time I touch them they fiercely sting,
Fortunately they are not connected enough,
to make every mistake so rough.
Spilling an alcohol on a bench,
hoping for it to finally drench,
the dark emptiness they can see below
that deceitful honeycomb made out of dough.