Turn the page,
And let me read something new
For now my innocence is torn
With no one wearing their real faces
Rudiments of utopian vandalism is born,

And I still hope,
That you'll seek me at the end of the night
And I still hope,
That you'll take away my reasons to fight,
Beyond the horizon.

Give me a blade to cut my wings,
Voluntary armament is the road to peace
Stacking up grave upon graves,
My emotions seek,
Trenches as their niche

And I still hope,
That you'll encase your arms around my neck,
When my back is against the wall
And I still know,
That you'll throw me away when the messengers bring, messages of war.

You remind me of someone from a half remembered dream,
A silhouette from an epoch
That I have journeyed through fleetingly.
And then beside these sempiternal embers
I indulge in a pestilenntial reminisce,
Of the antiquated aeon of camaraderie
When the befuddlement inundates my anima like a swinging ragde.
I have been spooring thy sigil,
Through this deranged tourney of metampsychosis,
Only to be impelled by your unequivocal,
Benightedness surrounding my subsistence.