To prove my likeness to dislike,
What a tyrant perspective!
What a runt of blisters!
To not lay waste to the land,
To not have death dance on my hand,
I must,
I insist I must change,
Ameliorate,
Morph,
I must lie and I must change,
I must lie and I must soak both pain and pleasure,
All to my decay,
Every breathe wasted is a death to portray,
Every chance you take to turn blue,
Life will surely unveil it's self to you in it's fairest hue,
A hospital gown,
A happy mother,
Sometimes the lowest of the men dare to carve,
Out of your bones a lovely harp,
To the lonely spirit that it sang,
My bones bathed in tremor and dance,
A sight astray;a dared jubilance,
God is the sun to those who weep,
They don't dance
Thier tragedy,their morbid romance,
Oft it may seem,
That they drag under their dream,
And cultivate of themselves a liar,
That refuses to be just to their own desire.