The sickening hands of the pianist,
Numb fingers, never to rewind for long
A reflection, in its divine song,
The broken mirror of the narcissist.
A chaotic fallen force began to drain
All colorful pleasures, in its innocent slay,
As in every sunrise, spared to remain,
Lays in the clouds, the tears of (the) day.
A chaotic fallen force began to terror
All colorful pleasures, in its shinning collapse
Shards of monstrosity's sinister mirror,
Tempest of loss at spring's (morbid) climax.
Day's absence of an ideal,
It seems the pain's unreal.
Of life's silenced tread,
It seems just dark ahead.
The soughing winds, from the deeps of the oblivion
Carved the dreadfulness on the statue of adaptation.
Lurking souls, behind the veil of cemented tears,
Dripping in eternity's euphoria, a frozen suffering.
Day's absence of an ideal,
It seems the pain's unreal,
Stranded amongst a woeful tree,
It seems it speaks to me.
The soughing winds, from the deeps of the oblivion
Carved the dreadfulness on the statue of adaptation.
Lurking souls, behind the veil of cemented tears,
Dripping in eternity's euphoria, a frozen suffering.