My boundaries are set close
In my brain I hold my spirit caged
Afraid I may feel the hope one day

A lot of fear has built an altar in my soul
I bow to it my every morning, I am fed with lies
Of sanctity, the supreme “path” of my sickness

I limit myself till I can’t breathe no more
I am unable to go out and count clouds
And lately… the sun doesn’t colour my skin

How do I smile back to the closed eyes?
No point in trying, I am a prisoner of culture
My fear resurrects hell in my soul and my fingers
Are carving it on a frozen glass of winter

See you at my funeral dear memories,
So few of you… they could be enough
For the life of a spring butterfly