From the bottom of the stage
lies the little oldest dream, she
with a magnificent imaginary
friends as roles of this endless play

The old self she made, the actress
without the lines, the madness and blind
eyes reading the parts they once gave

Still growing in this infinite child's play
wondering if the wounds in backstage could
ever be noticed or healed as they scream

Faith remains in: a present of silence, hidden
without disguises, vanishing rapidly away,
in the future they may written another suicidal
coward, vanishing in the hour of another dreadful May

All along those years of secret pain in flowers still
surrounded by fake plastic horrors in secret views, self indulgence among old pills vanishing in this mad's towers

The future seems unclear, in the back of her fears still remains the  running, but it is living while rambling with no roots to clear? To a newer self is wished nothing but courage, a belong fortress where no hollow lurks near.