The pare of blood shot, tear ridden, crying eyes
That look out from a reflection, burning
From a sheet of melted mortal moral sand
Made from the tears of the self-destroyed
What if the voice of the paranoid are real?
What if we are the ones that can not feel?
What if you are on the wrong side?
What if your the one who has the hypocrites pride?
What if?
What if?
But what if what I say is wrong.
What if all you have is fine,
Then I wish your happiness could some day be mine . . .
But then the questions return to me in the second before I sleep
What if In the deepest Toc of night There is nothing?
What if there is not (and shall never be) any reassurance in reality?
What if There is no time to think of how things could be?
What if your the only one who ever cries?
What if the pare of blood shot, tear ridden, crying eyes
Are your own . . .



Penned by my hand on the 13th of Scarlatan, in the year 281 AF.