Hazy lies and quiet eyes devise not fortuitous good.
On your own life, should you see.
On your own life, can't you be?
With these words of steeled-over rust and eyes so old, iced in their own slates of place, you treasonous beast! What shan't you be!
A son with a heart so cruel? A god with hands so sly? Of all you could be, you chose the worst of I.
That is what you choose, that is what you may, child of I. Child of me. No child of we, no child to be.
Yet, your heart is aflame! And yet to blame, and such to shame? You call yourself a lover of words so nice, and Gemini, to the naked eye your likeness seems kind. Not to mine! Should you live awry?
I raised you from the flames of a dead man, but what can you do but be less than? Less than adequate, less than needed.
Maybe it's your fate to be, not fate to see that you give such poverty. Poverty of the mind, and your mind minds no good to be minded of.
You choose your battles, yet they always end in blood.
