Letras
Destined as the servant to the night where your moon dreams of the dirt
And the sharp tongue of your zealous will is only congruent with the salt
In your mouth and the approaching eulogy of the world.
Lost in the patterns of youth and the ghost of your aches comes back to haunt you.
And the forging of change makes no difference.
Memories fly through the mask of your life shielding you from time.
The years that birthed the shell that you gained.
Hunched over in apathetic grief with a disregard for steps except the one taken back.
Perched up on a rope crafted in smoke, a sword wielding death that buried your hope.
Focusing on light through the blinds, a slave to reality under a monarch in the sky.
Lost in the patterns of youth where the windows shine brightly back at you.
