Where are the scars we can't yet feel?
The tongues we speak in won't allow them to heal.
Attempts at luring in shadows from the walls.
Painting pictures with their words, nails and claws.
Age is the death of imagination, they say.
The colors are dull, defined by blue and grey.
Hold your breath kid, the lines and sinkers aren't keeping us afloat.
Cast your familiar stares, I'll be counting the hours as the hands on the clocks spin around.
Walking the hallways of an empty house without making a sound.
So keep light feet through the air, don't touch the ground.
The floorboards burn with a passion to eat through your soul.
Age is the death of imagination, they say.
Defined by blue and grey.