And each thread will disperse from its' twine,
like a little salty taste of sour euthanasia slithering across my taste buds.
Standing on a plateau,
a great stomping ground for any self lying I need to get done.
Self,
if you've got the matches,
ill show you the bridges.
Loneliness makes for the best of material anyway,
and you will still counter the wrong on your hands with the justification of a malicious fault of others.
Light the match,
lets ditch the fields,
forget the patch,
no need for shields.
Of impeccable preference to sit,
behold,
the most comfortable of thrones for my own lies.
Such a throne to see so much action.
One would think it would be nothing but a dune of pathetic rubble.
I see no dispute,
from my view,
you look wonderful.
You even have value.
Everything I could ever want to hear,
funneling through my canals,
caressing gondolas of singing arts and wonders.
Truth!
Honesty!
Substance!
The gang's all here...
So hand me my crown,
and honor my reign,
make loss to your frown,
our bridge be slain.
Care not for loss,
but loss for care,
give me thine robe,
your lies I wear.
I step to the west,
the gate to your tales,
the rope to the test,
the match never fails.
Goodbye woody planks,
your all falling down,
I wear a smile,
while you wear a frown.
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