Life is a fading locker
that we keep recalling to store love

It is a vast, grand illusion
Inflicted to us by people with delusions.

And sometimes I sweat so much I can no longer feel my secrets.
And hope fails me as it always does.

But to be sure I'm not in a self-inflicted coma I tend to sing.

Sing about the wrongs of the men that force the corrupted spring.

And to ease my mind and not let it run out in green sand.
I keep counting the lines in my hand.