Crushing progress is my only prospect,
so internally placed into my very lungs.

Listen here for the old man wakes,
so bedazzled by the black bird that sings.

The bird screams the cries of a tortured soul
Yet the man unknowingly knows the soft tune.

His mind blissfully enveloped in this tune
Underlined by a fate of inevitable doom

Is this a lie?
Or a simple life?

The man stands upon his crooked foot,
Ready to begin, once again.