This golden weave of hands and feet,
No longer stand as king and queen,
But as jester, those foolish days of hope,
Those foolish nights of desperation.
A parliament of sentiments
Flourished from my pure intent
But blossomed in the lie.
And blossomed black.
A tragic fall of this conception,
Reveals to me my misconception.
And in the Light I am revealed,
For the close minded fool I despise so greatly.
With so much hate,
And so much angst,
I’ll bury yet another here.
And again, I am new.
But this new I am,
Is still as ignorant as the last,
And I am genuinely afraid.
For I may never escape this.