I'm starforsaken, im in flames upon an oaken throne. This dreamscape is clad in shadows as i hide behind space. The lunar strain is timeless as i stand ablaze. I'm ever dying in this dead eternity, safe within the moonshield from the jesters dance. My artifacts of the black rain form into a graveland as the lord hypnos sturs the dead god in me. I am the wayfareer within these december flowers, i have become food for the gods. These worlds within the margin have made dialouge with the stars, and i know that everything counts as i begin morphing into primal. The hive becons me as i bemoan to the whoracle, why must this be my ordinary story? I scorn the colony and their coered coexistence with the new world, they embody the invisible with their putried resin. I feel like the clayman as i swim through this place and brush the dust away from my oaken throne, square nothing and suburban me. Those satelites and astronauts above remind me of another day in quicksand, as i trigger the dawn of a new day with a wave of my hand and these dark signs of my now emblazed oaken throne. Everything seems like a metaphor in this free fall, minus this system, dismiss the cynics. I will watch them feed in this land of confusion upon my oaken throne. My sweet shadow is in search for i, i am dead alone as i see the touch of red within me. I would like to think i like you better dead, but i know you will discover me like emptiness. I am the superhero of the computer rage, i am the evil in a closet, i am your f(r)iend. I scream at the vanishing light, this dead end i must reach as i crawl through knives. I am pacing deaths trail. Maybe i should take this life...
But alas, the mirrors truth speaks to me. I see myself drenched in fear, condemned, disconnected. These delight and angers force me to become sober and irrelevant, the chosen pessimist in the jester race.
I am sleepless again, upon my dead wood throne.
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