I carry a void inside my beating heart
The beating of the drums seem to be slowing down by each minute
My void speaks to me like the old oak tree near my childhood home; it murmurs
But the thing is I don't have a childhood home
My childhood was stolen long ago

I turn to dust
I turn to dust and people try to pick me up but I slid right through their fingers
Years later
I manage to pick up the pieces but dust cannot be joined together
It's scattered
Like my beating heart
It's scattered and it raises me...