Don't stay awake for the promise of repair.
Your branches lie still like the broken verses you used to sing.
Softly, too softly.
Your whispers lined with thornes,
scraping across the delicate white of fearful eyes.
As you stare into the distant grey,
those two words always seem to be the worst.
Your hands release and fall into uncertainty.
We were listening,
haunted by the endless change and it made my lungs hesitate.
My eyes white like the broken verses you used to sing.
Harmonised like the broken verses you used to sing.
And it's not going to change.