Poetry / Untitled

How much would it change the fact
Would the idea of it be diffrent
How much feeling would differ
In what dream did we slide through
Through how we think of it
Asking them if the thoughts were right
Waching you slip through the grasps
What is home to us but a shelter
Forced to walk through the depths
Who was anybody that counted
Cut in to a world of dreams
Crimson was the blood that was shed
Sownds were that were faint but loud
Strapped to a routine of madness
Having what we wanted but none
Time to see what they have said
As though we were wishing for it
What id we do with what mattered
How much did we save for later
Nothing is what we wanted
Did you love the feeling of it
How much do you miss it, none at all
Roads to nowhere, doors to dreams
Everything is nothing to you
The stiry was wrong, it did not end