The Next Lord Of The Central City.
There's this guy,
Who walks,
And talks,
Just like you,
But it's not you.
It's like he got your skin,
And wears it,
Like his own,
But it's not his.
That skin belongs to a man I loved,
On him it was beautiful,
And soft,
And warm,
No longer.
The skin is ashen,
The smile I loved,
Gone,
The protection,
Gone,
Just attacking and cold.
And so,
I feel like a widow,
One with no funeral,
To go to,
Bab Populer