A smug fascination with sub classification has left her alone in a parallel realm right above desolation
She walks alone and mumbles to her self Trips, stumbles onto a past life she had placed on a shelf
Spending most of life slumbered Lending her soul to demons, this widowed wife became out numbered
Every day she would watch the orange sun drown in the ocean just off the coast Used to love all her friends, they would get together after accomplishments, boast, brag, and toast But, being all alone was when she felt alive the most
Persistence has lent an idea of where she would spend her remaining days Her existence was spent on the hunt for a precise place
An illiterate hypocrite under the spell of a hypnotist searching for something that doesn't exist Now an illegitimate exhibitionist only wanting another hit, Don't ask for truth cause it's something she'll never admit