my soul steals away with every tick, the ticks of the hand frm a clock
the fountain is where i sip the ever flowing water, shall it dampen my lips an make them pure?
my limbs have weakened for sleep has yet to surrender, yet i will not yield to this foe
into a danger i run headstrong shall all my resilience be adequate enough
my eye filled with the vengeful red of hate and disgust,
yet my face contradicts all with the warmth smile of a mother