the mountains, the son,
playing his gamboy,
Charizard and Blastoise,
paper and scissors,
victory and loss,
have been decided,
long before the match
As the splint feeds
the feeble flame,
in the heart of
the lonely cave, looking
for friends to swallow up,
like a selfish nephilim.
As my hair falls out,
My teeth to rot,
My eyes are deaf,
And my ears are blind,
My mouth is sealed,
Wandering in a steely cave
searching for the treasure
of a trusted friend,
The Original companion
on my side, till the whistle,
I would not want for
them to faint, or to
feint their crys, but their
strength will only raise,
from the raze of the cave,
or the rays of our star.
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