Cyle a waste of the wasteful mind blinded in the troubles of the world.
Lesser known to the cause of what the world follows for he follows his heart.

By a compass of wisdom, reliving through the footprints of the wiser men before.
What is spoken in mind has nothing of the words to say, but it is still not limited by such for such is not law.

Cyle a waste of the doubtful heart living upon the negatives it positively takes in.
Why live upon it if it kills us inside.

But for the sake of pride we'll fail to admit of how far we've fallen,
For no man wishes to be seen as lost unless by unseeing eyes.

So speaking to inner man within me to ignore such and following of these lies.

Cycle a soul feeling soulless on the emptiness he's made full within him.
For in time itself he has become of the many wasted hours,
Surely where is the time for him to be living the time of his life.
Why lay on the chopping board of the world's standards, openly ready to be cut down by it's knife.

Cyle the three of such a man for him to be free.
For of such man nothing is lost in the wake for he can still find the desire to dream.