Yellow, white, golden and brown: same old curtains surround me every morning;
Morbid, plain, so delicate, so pale.
They bend and break too, but in their ruins, all you see are loose threads;
In mine, you see placid, darkened eyes and a lucid existence.
A faint Beethoven resides on the brinks, drinking from my faded colors, leaving splotches like an overrun candle wax;
I have had my fill of empty glasses, I am done sewing on patches, but the threads keep coming off more and more.
I have thought of letting go, of playing along with the rusty ensemble; and every time, I was lesser like me, a little more hollow.