Manic spells have gripped him well
the ups and downs his worthy crown
Kingly view, but worldy hue
He doesn't find much laughter.
He slew his enemies, with righteous idignation,
But wealth, (it seems) is the mightiest nation.
(...)
Hesitation.
Is He worthy? (Of his crown)
Can he lead? (His children)
...
reflecting,
The war begins.
He smiles, he grins.
"We win"
Past sins...
Hold no weight; When the path is straight
& narrow
Firey arrows...
Quenched!?
With which whench?
Hath hitch hence!
Another False-pretense.
"Such non-sense"
...
"Haha shutup"
^-^
...
He picksup'
Hisword.
(Honed.
Sharp.
An Awe-inspiring, blade of Legend.)
And counts the costs of the reward.
How can He afford.
To not:
See?

He ensnarled her with his brutal guitar and poetry.
He was her first artisté.
He was oh so talented and even more tortured.
His twisted teeth spoke artery shattering words.
Under the depth of his performance she lay buried in dirt, thinking she was searching for a clover.
Hopefully she clawed and moulded herself to his grave.

I act like a kid, so call me a kid.
Rebuke me for each sin that I have hid.

I deserve nothing more than your disgust.
Yet somehow I seem to have earned your trust.

You don't have to make yourself smile for me.
I can be quite good at leaving folks be.

I can ignore when my heart picksup pace.
The trick is to look away from your face.

Your laughter I flee. I run from your glance.
If your hair is wet, I haven't a chance.