Well, I think
I am,
I will
Sing no longer.
To this self obsessive world
Were beauty is the bloody tear
Dripping from the roses thorns.

Don't, disturb, the priest,
The un - predictable, fool
The scrounger.
Walst, he's feeding, off his flock.
What I, think.
I am . . .

I think,
I am,
I will
sing no. Longer
Midnight,
Lay down,
Play dead,
Play for gold.

In, the middle, some lies,
locked. Down and, mortified
Your tears in the head light.
Shut, down and just terrified.
When, push,
Goes to pull,
Comes to shove,
Starts to step around
This self destructive dance
That cut the finger on the roses thorns . . .

Thrown, around, again
Just blown, about, again
You were breathing so soft, and, lightly
Compromise what
are our thorts.
I will . . .
I will . . .

Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Lupar, in the year 294 AF.