Graphic and twisted they come, I see nothing but they eyes of the storm. The walking devils know nothing of my fortune, nor the depths of my depravity.
It is Chaos again in the falling tide, great rhythm of stride and the fallen pieces knock about waiting for their turn to come into play.
What evil is this, I see the light of days, the coming of kings and the pain of suffering.
I feel the pain inside it pulls at my wounds and heals little pieces of my soul.
Where did I find the cold that wraps itself around me? Where did this sudden wind come from? Pieces of waste and refuse hide among the new. I come into the shelter of the painted shed of life, the cavern of my soul.
I dance upon the wall, waiting for things to fall, expecting things to tumble as I grow old. I know not the pain and suffering but the time I take to see. My eyes are pouring out the misery of lives untold, the chasm of dream