He's fumbling in the dark, the golden cut is near.
Somewhere at the end of a withered alley row,
the flower is ready to burst, the morning will shine clear --
shrouded in a thousand colors, borrowed from the stainbow.

The endless hidden meanings, of green and yellow dreams
will one day crash down, and the sound will be extreme.
The death by over-expectance, can seem quite obscene,
as the quiet stream of bounds is bursting at the seams.

The rapid of stagnation of being what he though,
a pyramid of calculation, to end up at the top.
The subtle improvements of becomming what he bought
is only good enough to define what he's not.

Cursed by incantations, that guide him through a maze
he's fallin into order, of the brick-pattern wall.
The building blocks of a reverse-momentum chase
eccos under the Fenix sun, a myth of rise and fall.