Times they are changing....
but my world keeps me
occupied. With the rooms
you never cross-eye,
my torn apart. The works
of dead men.
Dancing in the
death and me,
that\'s a breeze.
In your garden
of death.
I\'ll map out
my master hands.
Death? Fate?
Time?
The crumbs are lost
in life, so as in me, but
I am....in this world
that is shaped,
by the flow of the ebb,
of every thing.
Delirium\'s flowers were
gathered in fields
of death grows.
I\'ll put an anchor
to this lamp.
If you gather the
stem of this
plant mind,
I\'ll walk
the
road
you
planted.
The seed from
ancients, to the door
of the
wild flowers.
I\'ll map out
the galaxy with
a swing of my hand.
The dream is mine.
You can say the book writes itself.
But the hand seems to contradict.
I\'ll send a messenger for you to shoot.
If only if you get one day in the Sun, or
in other words fifteen minutes of fame.
You\'ll see Jesus walk on water.
But still you\'d ask for a different God
to clarify if it\'s okay to believe in this
man?