Sunday, January 17, 2010


Every morning, every night
mourning building a wave
drinking rotten dreams of the light
what a shame to be born
what a waste

When I address to all the sick
being unable to pick up the pace
all things about them are so weak
what a shame they don't understand
what a waste

All of you as I deceive
laughing inside this no good grave
and as a satyr I often freak
with you that think I'm still alive
what a shame


Something exists within the stagnant water
a charm inside the newly burnt forest
an attribute in that specific feather
the wind has broken being audacious modest

Such an inhuman feeling I brood
with every kind of decay
the darkest milk as fever's proof
opposite cheerfulness to nature's play

It must be feeding something I ignore
that may once come bathe into the light
the incubus people I strongly loathe
thus putting my soul in public sight

So pull me dead into my christening
in a distant port of my never
maybe I'll find my self comfortably sitting
inside the city of big ideas forever


Forgotten on a freezing sun
Sinking into a godless storm
where a lovesick dying man
survives by hopping in his home

With crutches made by a ghost of youth
and leader the strangest curse
guarding our first fall off the roof
pierced in pain by a quality scarce

I wish I'd die by a soldier death
getting erased from the bitter files
willing to rescue my fame that's left
fooled to be one of the knights