Golden skies and grass greens,
ribbons and threads and legacies,
heavens and harlots, power and age.
It's all flames in the end, isn't it?
All words, all swords, fall so, perfectly.
And like a cancer, you can eat the cigarettes' so sweetly,
all the champagne flowing so freely,
And when we wait for our Paris.
Life makes you intoa a creatures below, surprisingly like mosquito in summer
eating in the garden of fire, to live happily.
It's all smokes and shadows tomorrow,
and it falls like a cold shaped drink, like a dollar
swinging, settling, hoping to be taller, but falling
in our hangover and faded like-memories
in the black morning, of anxiety and sorrow.
Just eating in the garden of fire,
dragons, vampires, pirates and scabies.
All from a broken shaped bottle with ***** like choices,
liars of empires, sweats of angels and children,
it all flames in the end, in the garden of fire, isn't it?
But when the wind turns north,
will you turn and know, when the rich
and the wicked find no more?
If we slowly find the money isn't the answer to all things,
and the battles, bills, and blessings don't become our idols
maybe eternity, will overflow, we can lie down in grass so green,
and like mountains, like kings, we will find happiness so free.
Surely in meadows and forests, witches and wickedness,
anger and bitterness, will be song so forgotten once we are so free.
We will eat the richest cheese, running into homes of orphans,
we can cause them to be such kings, alive and well and so happy.
Before the end truly comes, in time and reason, a new healing,
king and throne, with eyes so weary, knees and backs so heavy,
we will remember, like a song so catchy, a life set free.
