Edge yourself On the end of the tight rope, For it is the last bitter release Before the middle is cut. For upon the stem, Midnight becomes the image Of two connected hearts. Am I the roots, While you are the bud? The thorns! They are on the road to travel To you. Though, the dew Has placed itself on the teeming buds Peeking their faces through. The thorns Have been the placements of pain On the road to you. Each feather for our heads Has been burned by fire. What can I do, to raise myself higher? If I am the roots, As you are the bud, There must be eyes to see. Though, all I notice is the sun to blind me Above, within the Heaven's eternity. Here is me, Wanting life When all I receive are these tempests of strife.