 |  |
| |
Here sits I, in my world of fantasy, Sometimes I cry, don't know what else to be. And I look to the faces, The drones that walk the streets, To take again their places, And to soon find their defeat. Here sits I, in my world of gentle dreams, On the outside, I'm slowly tearing at the seams. And I look to the numbers, Blank faces of the city, And the babes deep in their slumber, For them I hold my pity. Here sits I, too afraid to look outside, How I try, and still she prys inside. And I look to the side, Don't dare look at her face, And my sanity slides, In a type of deadly grace.
Swimming in dark water, Pangs on descending daughter. Yellow haired, black and white, Fathoms deep on red giant light. On a boat of crimson cloth, Slipping tabs in toxic fog. The words I pity the fool, Throne and shrines no wish to rule. A man not wuite the martyr, A man done fictional slaughter. Not real yet quite convincing, On fragile bow the comets dancing. Yellow haired, local alien, Playing on reeds fish scaling in. Interstellar child of mourn, Fragile element though heavens born, Where will I be tomorrow?....
