Across a tightrope I have walked, with fallen angels I have talked. A soul I had, but kept it mine, for Purer Me I built a shrine. My innocence was ripped from me, I let it happen carelessly, as piece by piece my Self was cracked, I mourned the sanity I lacked. A million Lefts I took but still, the Rights stood by my window sill, but panes of glass cut deep and so, I lived within the pain I know. I think I have forgotten now, just why I’m here or even how. The path towards the end… so far, and even if I hitch a star, the years I see alone in sleep, are hills and mountains far too steep. And yet I sit within a fire, complain of burns and scald desire, a bed of nails would comfort though, instead of waking here just…so. I can’t bemoan existence yet, for though too late, at least we met. And if I’m cold, these tears feel warm. Your voice, a song that calms my storm.