Frost on the ground, Condensation on the window. Maybe something brittle Broke along the way;
I’ve learned there’s no such thing As a perfect triangle And now there doesn’t seem That much to say.
Between seasons, Colours indistinct, Painted life in shades Not quite of grey,
No stone to be cast Between guilt and innocence, And now there doesn’t seem That much to say.
Water on the glass Makes it hard to see. From outside comes An old dog’s tired bark.
None of this Is near being true. No young or old, only new. The sky is shining dark.