He waits for nothing
trapped inside vendettas of the past.

To compensate for all the pain.
Collapsed by storms, aghast.

Mouthing words into the plated
metal microphone.

Omniscient spy who gawks upon
his wretched monotones.

Patient Dr. Jekyll sits still
with longing looks.

While Heyde is toying endlessly
amongst his fellow crooks.

If only neither played a part,
and both were but a dream,

No plague of silent conflict
would crowd his every seam.

Within the realm of tragedy,
is where his soul endures.

Ty; intrinsic predator
searching for a cure.

And as his restless measures
of feelings coincide,

and harmonies escape his lungs
while beats start to collide,

The distant Dr. Jekyll protrudes
from vacant sleep.

Commences to erode a quiet
conscience, from the deep.

Sudden need for elsewhere
is all that Ty can see.

Every fiber recognizes
where he needs to be.

And suddenly the microphone,
who knows his every pain

is sitting lonely,
mesmerized
by silent noise again.

Ty is but a victim, sullen thoughts
that make him sick.

Never can he compromise,
when all his habits stick.

Forever now ambivalent,
confused and losing time.

Ty knots his laces,
bats his tears,
a façade: pressed and fine.

Ty's dreams are crushed,
disintegrate into the offshore sand.

When all at once he notices,
his life is in his hands.

A straw that Jekyll used before
is laying on the ground.

Heyde is shaking shamefully,
but cannot make a sound.

Ty looks upon the dreams he crushed
and searches for his will

its lined up right in front of him,
dispassion in a pill.