Man, who has fallen Macabre.
Like the man who wears his shirt backwards,
It is like I, am not one at all.
I pluck the daisies, only to give to you,
You talk of Lotus’s; I smile at the concept.
Your smile is of an amber energy,
My insides aflame, I cannot even refrain,
But just as the sun its zenith,
Must everything fall?
My back is met with cold objects,
Their icy feel, like your eyes,
With all do they conceal?
Right or wrong, you are a fascist,
I Must Be Wrong.
The king's men, have betrayed him,
His golden statue, has fallen from its pedestal,
The idol stares, with its discerning eye,
Just sing your hymn.
Her arms covered,
Peace, Laugh, Love
These are now curses, Bait for the unknowing souls,
Hypocritical fiend, your fallacy’s unending.
Succubus, and whore,
To help a lost, and forgotten man,
When his chair is about to be pulled from under,
Torn asunder, by his once thought fellow,
You know not of, but to save yourself,
When your evil neglects the flower bearers,
You begin to realize,
For each man with a flower to give,
Danse Macabre.
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