when gods be envious of men,
for living such intense lives,
that is where fallen angels find the lies,
to tell us that we are the gods,


to the sound of a heartbeat,
I write this ode to joy,
from saintly kindness kindled in virtue,
to the fallen vice of old,

We live our lives in circles,
keep going when we're called,
questing mechanics,
none whatso-ever to be found.

We hope to keep on dreaming,
of those streetlights that would burn,
on windows that elude,
with the warmt of hearths that burn,

the pavement in the rain,
the beaches in the summer,
yet all that has faded,
in the fall that has come,

now tell me dear angel,
where is the mechanic?
where is that warm summer rain?
if only for the circles in my soul.

in those dreams I feel reborn,
to a new sense of self,