The worldly care of the piece of lead,
Today was stary and icy, as i glanced over death.
Choke to ricochet the secrets of living with a head,
'The scream of a wrecked soul' while you bled.

And vigilance of that mask isn't to be heard,
It is the most of evergreen if leafs were hurt.
And Robinson Cursoe isn't that far from my words,
As i am from painting that vigilance in red.

And scenes of fire and the torched sky,
You didn't like my heart to poetically ask "why?".
Exploitation of that very distinction is mine,
A demon isn't a true portrait or art but I'll try.

Be the nobody to digest these claims of glee,
High is the heaven if my god don't fancy me.
Now i rest with the stary mess of a dream,
Am i beautiful knowing that the leafs never bleed?...