So frail, yet never ending. The dream. Of early, uneasy morning hours. Or so it seems Glass walls surrounding me – I‘m locked from inside, madly looking for a place to hide
I‘m running out of air, I‘m suffocating And every single sense in an alarming tension screams to me: You’re on the island, there’s a shore.
Wading the night, only saved by the dawn and the morning Steep is the climb, even steeper the ridge I’ll be falling from Reckless is my flight as I am driven forward in panic By coincidence or by design I feel I’m being chased, gasping
I’m ankle-deep in the sea of broken shards and hopes And as I’m wading onwards I feel my head explode
By coincidence or by design The flesh is being torn-off my spine