Dark ominous clouds swirl in with feverish speed,
The walls of Valhalla tremble at the thunderous...

It's a human condition,
A ritual rite...

Tiny bits of memories,
They trickle down from somewhere deep inside...

The garden is all she cared for,
Out there every day weeding away...

This king, this monarch, this dictator,
To his people, a dismal failure...

He was a good man, that had bad luck,
Never learned a trade, rarely made a buck...

He wanted to move on,
Find a place of their own...

Who are you? What do you want?
You need to go away...

Settling into the tree,
This little sprite is unhappy...

Time has moved on,
And the "good times" sometimes seem to...

I saw a man walking with flowers one day,
I thought to myself he surely is in love...

If there was a way,
I'd connect your heart directly to mine...