The world moves in rhyme with the beats of his heart,
Taking shapes of everything that sets his mind apart.
His fingers sway to play the notes of, both, dear life and death.
For his strings were blessed to hold, both, dear peace and mess.
The music in his veins fuels his pain to ignite a flame,
To dawn over his shame, shut madness' claim he's insane.
It's swinging on the walls of every home he's ever had,
That home was never really part of any room or flat.
But dwells inside his lonely guitar a heaven of his own.
The tragedy of the closest thing to home he'd ever known