Spill it out, spill it out,
Your mind is a drought.
Sleep has no room
in the wars of the heart;
No justice in silence, no cure in fear-
No healing, no mercy, just your silent tears,
shadows are hiding what’s in the loom;
When  flowers are dying,
and dead in the bloom –
all that’s left is the scent,
of leaving too soon,
like a winter in summer,
a river on the bend,
leading you nowhere,
but tow’rds  imminent end.

-Cricket