Days have organized their ways
With wretchedness and with pain
But the minutes loom his bed
While sleeping in the early day.
The hum of flames that evening
And the lies, the sins he's breathing
Not a demon in the agony of hell
But a butterfly in the wounded sealing.
Circumstances and curses of eternity
Delightful expertise of tragedy.
He rises and throws the cushion away
Ready to alter to the worst of a bee.
Imaginations of the closed domes
Run along the superior homes,
I grabbed the gun to shoot the wings
But the psycho ran to the lower roads.
Seven clouds around the shinning sun
He ran to the building with his gun
To shoot the sky to fall the rain
And pure the sickness in his lung
But the sky threw the spines
And he ran to secretly hide
Could I go under the sky?
Or would I be hurt from the sign?
I went, I have to help the man
As I approached the unshelled land
Nothing touched me, nothing fell on my hand
But when he saw me, he scarcely ran.
I followed his step wherever
And to fly him away is for never
I see him wounded more and more
As the minutes approached to fire the second.
No! He won't die
Neither today nor tonight
I ran so fast to catch his wings
But as I did there was no more light.
The dimness grew in my eyes
And no more sins no more lies.
I cried, I thought I was in hell
But suddenly I heard no cries.
The light grew stronger and stronger
And the pureness of him grew louder.
I sat to watch him go away
As I sat on the wet floor
The psycho went up the ladder
