A World of darkness, where we play games of light,
And shifting shadows fly phantom kites,
Terrifying planes and high heights, are balanced by
antic shamans of light.
Here left is left only sometimes left is right,
beware of the trickster hidden in the right

The cycle of fire is not as well known as the cycle of water
It is by far more demeaning, and it is not afraid of the dark
It will chase your shadow, and be the only reason it can be
The cycle of fire can find you, even when it isn't really there
It is in your dreams, it's in the walls, it's in the creak in the stair
It comes in dreams it comes in visions in your hopes and yearns
Although you can't remember you have the scars to remind you
Of it's burns

100 layers of wallpaper are pasted on this wall.
100 life times to peel away, glimpse and recall.

The first is pink shutters on windows with bars.
I think that this person must have had secret scars.

Then come race horses with numbers from one
to ten. I think "This looks like the room of a young Ben".

Next comes something that I think is from the 50's
or so : it's a laughing woman, with a red red hair bow.

Then brown flowers, and on the bottom left
written in Morse code it says S.O.S.

I stopped what I was doing I had to count to ten.
Then I fled from that room, never to return again.

Silence and sadness are not one
But laughter and tears can be
Hearts born to woe eat at others
Because they never had the chance to grow
he was
The contrast of a rainbow
he is
The light that used to glow

Jacob worked for fourteen years
Romeo gave his life and swallowed his tears
If we lived a long time ago in past years
Would you wear my favors and bring me a monsters ears?
For me would you overcome your greatest fears?

For everyone theirs a spot, weather there crazy or weather they're  not. They fool themselves they'll fool you and me oh yes they'r great at trickery.
Someone wants them to be, so they'll tell them okay and smile stickily.
They have no integrity, the truth won't set them free, they like it were they are, they're where they want to be.
Though they may lie and shout oppressed, between the two us it's just they're sickly little jest.

Beeting, thumping, taping
clickety , clockity , clapping.
quality quickens the
writhety rhythm  
the tapity
clapity
ra