wrapped up in caramel daydreams,
trying to resolve the screams,
down the windelstán, below,
is someone that he used to know,
one reached for a grip,
a one cold water sip,
but one could never hold,
as he was far too old,
nor old of age, nor old of gold,
but blood dripped down and it was cold,
thee chateau, a ****** mine,
crying crystals over wine,
given screams, now, louder tune,
mixing sugar with a spoon,
he can’t get them out his head,
wrapped, in bed he’s turning mad,
spiral staircase leads to cache,
he’s stabbed by guilt, gone in dash,
thee chateau still there remains,
screams still whisper, leaving stains.
