I'm sleeping in the kindled room.
Because it's warmer than outside.
I know that the longer I stay,
the more the world gets sharp and black.
My hours are burned down with colors.
I’m covered with falling ashes.
The weight will crush all.
I fall into the dark.
I'm dying slowly here.
I know that I want to be happy but I scream,
“I shouldn't have been born.”
Who can hear it？
At last the fire spreads to me.
The world stiffens with uncountable edges.
This place will collapse in due time.
Someone, dig up the ashes for me.
Go backwards to the burned down hours and colors.
I became ashy long time ago.
Do I hesitate to be corrupted rather than freeze in that place？
Crawl out of the ashes.
Wipe a muddy tear.
It's not looking away from a false hope,
but running away before despair catches me.
It may be too late.
Tomorrow may not come.
I stare at the burning room protecting me.
And I wish someday I will forgive my ashes.
I'll be gone.