Restless, my heart can't find its quiet.
Twenty seventh week is one week more than a half year.
It has been long, but few had been my outlet;
Less riddles in this piece, yet, some points may still be unclear.
It's not about me, it's about you, this coming Wednesday;
Wednesday it was, 27 weeks ago upon this Wednesday of yours.
A gaze is hard to do, a word is hard to say.
Inward is chaos, even if the outward seems just a normal course.
"Abba", I call, I pray that you are alright... standing.
I've left a deep scar, mine is a bleeding wound.
I pray you're doing fine, it's right that I'm suffering.
What would happen? A fix coming never or a fix coming soon.
I remember, I'm not certain since my sight then was poor.
Was running, blisters in the making, your group then saw me.
Your group jeered, thought I heard your voice too, I'm not sure.
I hope you did, I hope I was able to clearly see.
But I recall too, moments of same magnet poles.
The night before our mentor's Day; some night before Five Candles.
Bullet of indifference. A bleeding wound in my soul.
Nights I pray, this unquiet heart to hush, uneasy heart to handle.
It's not about me, it's about you, this coming Wednesday;
A gaze is hard to do, a word is hard to say.
Restless, my heart can't find its quiet.
It has been long, but few had been my outlet.
Don't know when you'll read this, don't know if you'll ever do.
I pray you're alright, I pray this message of mine you'll get.
