The son dances in the moon's wind
Mild nights, streams of awe
Grace galore, man of flare
Sequined flaws, I am daylight
I reel it all, my mind's pictorial
Pours showers of quarantined ore
Gold, brass digging for dreams ashore
I walked a journey of a thousand lives
My path awashed by quicksand
Blood vessel and gland, circulating passion
A time warp, caught in a tangent of what should
Or could have been before I turned twenty-four
In a foreign space, peasant to paupers
Swam up shits' creek and came out clean
Stained scents, aroma of King Tut
Build me a coliseum, a treasury for my woes
Then comes conquest, with hard breath
Calloused limbs, I beseech the throne
A prayer oft-expressed in my cradle years
Bring me success or portion me death
On my sarcophagus, wreath me a withered prune
The unfermented here thee lay
The fishing pole that seldom bends it's shape
Acquaints poverty, even herrings wouldn't play
A facet of an argument defunct of logic
The faucet that renders clean
A race I ran, a fractured spleen
Weak belly, malady of a glutton for shillings
A pasture in the wild, shepherd's slay
So in my time, I shed carapace
Not to hide my past but renew my zeal
As vellum, a tablet for the paradigm that is life
Recurring; hills, valleys and flat lands that nigh.
Pivotal in my stance, funneling the monsoonic tidings..