The Blue Falling Door

No promises to keep No excuses to believe A window and a book Black window as a look Walls. Black. Anesthetized from emotions. Lines. Cracked. Burning into an opaque mirror. A knife A trembling hand, veins are so naked The sky The purest eyes inhale the soul Soul is a rare thing Some are hidden, some are killed Breathing alone and blind No one lies, no one cries Stay alone to slight Or make the creed commits a suicide A soul can't heal It dies – and if is strong – it revives