Ricochet.

I haven't reached this place in so long 
An infinite number of ways to run,
To leap from the anger,  Ricochet my own voice,  crush the roses, and burn the star's, 

I've had it with the chains, I've squeezed through the bars,  only to make charcoal  puddles of old photos burried in ash, I  doused them with tears that burnt my flesh,

Rolling through infinite numbers of old bruses the emotions left behind, untaimed but vocal,  how one must feel to mock the seed, when anything out of love is a good deed, 

so I tell the ceiling my worries through cracks the barricades won't hold, and there the naked flames of old, cinder to ignite but shadows aren't the victims of the light, nor and those scars a burden like the peel of any enchanted fruits,

I just cut the stems of every colour flower,  to rearrange,  and feed the roots, that grow wherever the sun is fair,  and winter harsh, it's not so much like quicksand , this feeling 
but an overgrowth of mash.