I write for the child in mine,
the girl whose thoughts were unkind,
who sat wild in wind and grew older again
with more questions than answers each time.
Sought out the advice from great writers of strife
hoping they'd help unwind,
that they'd answer the questions in her hopeless young mind,
but now she's concluded
each man is deluded and believes he is God of our time,
the only king master, the main story line.
As for I, the servant of delusion of the man thought as wise.