| The rain has come
|
| He surrenders to his fate
|
| It is hiding him
|
| From the sounds of his mental state.
|
| And the rain falls
|
| And the rain pours down.
|
| It is fair to say
|
| That he drifted
|
| On the salt of the open sea
|
| And the words that bleed in his month
|
| Carry him, drag him to the deep.
|
| Heave your arms
|
| Caught adrift
|
| Embrace the shade.
|
| The drama is torn asunder
|
| Thus I fall inside my fate
|
| Waiting for the fever
|
| And I will sing to my crusade.
|
| Between the barren and fruitful
|
| I got lost in the daily grind
|
| There is no way that supports my
|
| Dark conceptions to unwind.
|
| I am the art for the people
|
| The apple of their crying eyes
|
| Missionaire for the seeking
|
| Chewing their lives with contempt.
|
| Like a stormfront that he precedes
|
| It is the sound of the dreamer that screams
|
| Bashing clocks he had always wondered
|
| But never spoke of
|
| It is the strength, the weakness
|
| And the perfect in between.
|
| Facing everything that he walked upon
|
| The eye had hurried by
|
| Compromising the smallest
|
| Fractions of a particle. |