i foretold the marches of men like you
the squeaks of my heart are few
far apart are words not close nor true regarding the creaks of my neglected door hinges
the grungy scene and light feels cold and awful but not as much as my love for you.

i'm not one to raise my voice
i don't reply much either
forces shan't pose a choice
for i was never told to
just flow through the air and work as an amp
i was told to be the sheath of mass as a shade is of a lamp
the managed rings that circle a renaissance
or the damaged middle-ground between a fall and a ramp.

forgive me if i moved too fast, i'm not used to attention.
not that of perfection, stunned by your complexion
sweet words to a lady for her love and retention.
but i'm not a love, i am simply tension
between a brain and a heart, integrity or intention.