In this reason of a fictioned mind
my dreams exist out of such complex mystery.
Then awaken I dig deep into my fantasy
and wither off the dust from last days bind.

I am the elder, you are the blime.

You've settled by your daily walk
and throttled by your oak.
You've bested the beast that stalk your soul
but remain so bleedingly broke.

I find my time sucked dry by the infedility of a mortal mind.
Even though we share the blood we are not of equal kind.

I am the elder, you are the blime.

There are responsabilities
and you work to uphold them too.
Are you able to push outside your ability?
Beyond the weight of your gravity?
Or am I stuck here in the middle with you?

There are forces that work against the will of the tainted man,
that strive to eject the life of the guilted man,
that seek to destroy the dreams of your mind
though you remain smiling, hopeful and kind.

My arrow is reaching my direction North,
where my home and dream is beckoning.

Will I live to see the day of your reckoning?

I am the elder, you are the blime.

The quill is moving hastily
and my time is running dry
so, before my spectre resign its breathing
and I will dream of a dream forever more,
I will tell you of my mening,
By which the paper speak my word,
It is of a deep desire made,
of which I can keep by my tongue no more,
that as the witful mind may pray as I pray,
I wish to be solemnly contend
at the end of the day