Spinning around tongue in cheek,
Head on the gun, still it has its reek,
Twirling about in a white gown,
All voices reach, whispers bound,
I've been hearing all since years,
Last heard from myself back in yesteryears,
I have sat with you among incessant walls so white,
Thinking if we could ever make it bright,
May be if we could make it quite.

A smile or two said it would be alright,
Latching on longer, we thought would set it right,
But who knew, who knew, that we had missed the winds,
Missed the winds where we could soar in our skin,
The winds that could fly our sins,
The winds that could all night, fly our kite.

You murmured words, wonder and wander,
I spiraled away,
As light as a feather,
You promised the quill would make it right,
That many paper boats would be a sight,
Soon it'll all be bright. 

But, here I am amiss midst pitter-patters,
A white gown, twirling in misting voices' pattern.
They won't take off shore, I see them tossed,
May be like me, they too have missed,
Missed the winds that could soar in our skin,
The winds that could fly our sins,
The winds that could set it right, fly our kite.

Don't know much longer I can take,
Don't how deeper they would rake,
Spinning around tongue in cheek,
Head on the gun, chances seem meek,
Twirling about in a white gown,
Spelled not to cry when they pierced,
Stared at the ground, prying spilled milk,
Laughed at that thought, I finally happened on light,
But, only all much to the Reaper's delight,
All the voices reached, whispers bound,
A million rhymes, written grave to my sounds,
Paper boats only clutter on the shores crown,
Perhaps, they missed, too have lost,
Those winds where we could soar in our skin,
The winds that could fly our sins,
The winds that could set it right and fly our kite.