you have wandered into my heart
without wiping your feet,
and have planted your garden
with some peregrine seed,
uprooting suspicion to feed the roots you know i need.
not the slightest premonition
hinting at this fires ignition,
with harmonies conspicuous,
it brought me to a full fruition.

you make me become me,
scraping tar from ancient condition
a reassessment of the needs,
a very natural division.
and though many of my deeds,
however morbid they may be
fade from your conscious recognition;
oh my true soul, you've made free.

so you may walk upon my heart.
tread heavily, with boots of lead,
for you have become the reason
for it to even bother to beat.