My child I know you´re not a child
but I still see you running wild
between those blooming trees
your sparkling dreams, your silver laugh
your questions for the stars above
are just my memories

and in your eyes the ocean
and in your eyes the sea
the waters frozen over
with your longing to be free

yesterday when you´d awoken
the world seemed incredibly old
this is the age you are broken
or turned into gold



i really hate it when im reading a book and i picture the whole setting in my head a certain way and then the author mentions something which completely messes up the way i view the room or scene like a door on the left side instead of right or like a window which is only small instead of ceiling to floor or areas and landscapes on the road like cmon now i have to completely renovate the land in my head