Oh how the Blue-Bird falls from grace,
To be torn apart by bonebirds at the shore.
Were I an Icarus, were I Achilles, but I couldn't be more sure.
That my days were outnumbered by my whims and my follies.
And the blackness of falling, and the grey of the rain.
Ever that I was a danger and a risk, ever that I denied
Is there anyone there, can swear they've nothing to hide?
Then swear it to me now.
Can I but seek my pension through the fires of the 7,
Walk my way out as Orpheus, through the gates of redemption
Or do I make sick of myself, ill and repentant.
Wary to pay any of greed nor of love, monetary nor mention

But of what status and peace of mind I may have bought myself in times before. I wonder, I wonder....