Hope, recognizes our desires, the desire of love and to touch the fires,

Don’t dwell on bent misshapen dreams,

Don’t stab the doe and leave her furs,

Open the door for the bitchiest witch, or dispose of that and ditch the bitch,

Can you see why I hate so much more; yet want to hold the fire,

And I wake up everyday to a monster, mouthing wickedly, “LIAR!”

Can you see with eyes of glass, reflecting my face, a portrait of a dieing poetic race,

Surrounded by parasites impairing our bodies,

Stunning our minds and causing chaos grimace,

It’s all relative to the eve of disaster, when we sleep, when we dream, in our nightmares,

Into a rising fog I’m stolen, into it’s domination,

Bid farewell to written grace.