i walk past unpainted houses
back to where we used to sit
the tree blooms as stately as before
the grass, though, thinner, than
the last time we sat on it

newspapers strewn all over my room
im painting sunsets on midnights
as lonesome as this

and why, i asked myself why
do i write about those sunsets that i never see..
then i ask myself, oh, how
we have come so far, so far
from all that we could ever be

picking up shadows and colors
im capturing fragments of moments
but the moonlight mocks me

retracing my steps, i try to see
past the moonlight, the sunset,
the shadows, the madness
but im blind and im mad, and i feel
that im broken, broken, broken

dreaming of sunsets that i never see.