Hearing that dreadful voice lower its tone,
Whispering in the bleeding eyes pictures of darkness.
Pitch black and cold the solitary inner zone.
Whatever had a sense; now it's meaningless.
Holding a troubled world with a piece of string,
One hand nailed on the last standing wall,
That rotten place once had a king,
Now there is little left and that's all.
Hiding behind a thick cloud.
Sharp blades between each of the bones.
"Is there anyway to be proud?".
The king is in terrible pain and he stands alone.
Tasting lemons and honey every morning,
The sweet and sour flavour of the riding.
The ghost reappears to reveal another sign.
Quick, wake up! This is just another tale of the mind!
Trying to think quiet with rationality,
To avoid to kill the unstable truth with illogicality.
These miserable moments never last for long.
An ill belief is never that strong.
Run away from the city paranoia!
Run away from the crossover routine!
Before the body turns into a destroyer.
Before existence starts to stink like a latrine.
Too late, the ghost shows his face once again.
The voice tells what will be and when.
The sentence is spoken, nothing to deny.
Plastic burns into the hopeless eyes.
Wonderful and tragic the course of life.
Caged in a circle, prisoner of time.
There is a way to escape it written on a knife.
Fear is the punishment; thinking is the crime.
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