Thy music, so mellow,
With bits of raining sounds
And thy orchestra, thy a capella where notes and colors rain,
But a drag that let thee down
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When the mind is wreathed in shadows,
For which the shadows engulf the silhouette of our mind,
Which maketh us chained for a spell to be casted upon-
A spell so vigorous, A spell so deafening, A spell so weakening,
A spell that giveth thee the most perfect smile.
Thou spreadest thy wings though thou canst not see,
Though when you sawest thyself, thou scrambled-
Scrambled in bliss or in despair-
And thou thought all thy life wast but a snare,
Though thy potential wast never touched by thee,
But coloring thyself wast much greater to thee.
