You left behind you, an epitome of bitter.
Reminiscing our painted memories by the lake.
Devoured by solitude, embracing the sheep.
All I ask to whoever listens is to be fixed.
Because I am erased clean, a torn thing.
And there is nothing here that is mine.
Even if I go to an abandoned cave to mine.
Forgotten, isolated, sea is bitter.
I remain worthless, a pointless thing.
Drowning my misery in the heavy lake.
Each fragment of my mind will be fixed.
If only I could feel content like the sheep.
But I am a mere human and they are sheep.
The bizarre pain I weave is mine.
Only the scars are permanently fixed.
Every bit of reality I consume tastes bitter.
Heartbroken leaves floating in the cold lake.
The withered chrysanthemum is the only thing.
That you kept so close to you, that thing.
And your treasured cardigan as white as the sheep.
No matter how cold or warm, we sat at this lake.
Why am I the one who had to explode like a mine?
I pour and mix my soul into a pint of bitter.
Time is a brisk train while I remain fixed.
When I gazed at you first, my irises fixed.
Our colourful dreams felt like a lucid thing.
Until my existence turned monochrome and bitter.
Those curls of your hair like horns of sheep.
They sparkled like wet roads unlike mine.
Now my grief alone can create a lake.
A midnight blue universe sized lake.
Uncertain fate of glass has been fixed.
My insides nothing but a dark coal mine.
You know there is always that thing.
I can enter the slumber while I count the sheep.
Consuming your sweetness intertwined with my bitter.
I did not want to bring up this thing.
But I will sit at the lake and call the sheep.
And completely abandon the world’s bitter.