When I'm weathered,
I rust.
there's a fine line between what's real and trust,
I walked into a trap, and considered it a plus,
I'm the symbol, lost in the percuss,
if she may, if she must.
When I'm weathered,
by your might,
there's a fine line between a smile and being polite,
I sleep during the day, and stay up all night,
appreciate I think not, she didn't consider the flight,
she just may wrap the trite.
When I'm weathered,
I ask,
where's the fine line between the air and a gasp?
if I'm the rocket, how long before blast?
does the finger pick fast for an overdue at-last?
when she played the music, what made her think about the past?
When I'm weathered.
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