The Sun Makes Its Rounds
The boy pretended he was very proud,
Struggling to find a way out of the dark.
Running away from the curious crowds,
Disappointment has made its final mark.
As he was wandering through restless fear
Knowing it would be over very soon,
Thinking of whom he once used to hold dear,
Hoped to be dead in time of rising moon.
Despite the cold he drove with windows down,
Wanting to feel each of his final breaths.
Trying to get away from his home town.
Loudly he plays the sound track of his death.
This March it is one year since he is gone.
How strange he's no more, yet the sun still dawns.
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