What my lips will not assure, at the edge of hallucination

Since death won’t take away in a cold whisper

your breath with its unmercyful horn,

sorrow will not spread this sheet,

madness won’t take out my right hand’s heat

my lips will not assure, at the edge of hallucination,

a wandering lost soul’s appearing,  lonely, embraced by frustration,

gasping, drifting down the shiny, joyful, liquid green walls.

So i wouldn’t dream of scoriac  rivers restestly rolling

neither would blame psyche of murdering my will,

i would just believe instead, in the light that crowls freely, delightful,

out of your warm dark leave tone, rounded, luminous crystal windows

those, that guarded spirits of the dark,

and kept temptation demons tied

away from who’s laying upstairs soft and warm

diving in innocence and clear advice

unaware from the misterious wandering groans

wich surround, out in the cold rivers of the night.