...empty stage,
confettis cry their glory past,
life be like that sometimes, you see?
who remembers the one,
under raining stars,
when mars is the future gar-,
-den of thieves,
and when do we cry, our glory past, Prince's niece?

they say memories are a shadow,
incessantly by your side,
now that I think of it,
'twas me who said it,
beautiful metaphors,
as few word shelves higher,
must be why most women I choose,
fall in love with me,
alas for a night, nevermore,
they realized, never understood,
I'm a dreamer, not a dream!
I rarely even sleep,
I just get enough of the day,
enough of the shadows...

I am,
my favourite writer, poet, storyteller,
my words, speak not in riddles,
they do not lie, I know them perfect,
my words, you are a true friend

when rivers flow upstream,
I wish,
you could see this dream,
this masquerade of sacrifice,
understand my choice of life,
reality, surpassed by reality,
how the stars tell their tales,
and make me have these ales

kings and queens,
they die in satin sheets,
farmers pass away,
next to beloved sheeps,
and poets,
they walk amongst the dead

you take me to asgårdian lights,
rob this novice from his sight,
see these flickering reels,
steal real feelings, at ease,
and what is left of me,
offers nothing to goddesses,
whom now walk beside,
                                 undersigned.