False King

To stand upon your own tomb Beneath the plural sky Divine right, denied life Twisted yet so pure To deny the lines written in time When I only read from the blindfolded eyes I'm screaming muted disgust Dreaming of dying, my sentence is just As I am molded by the leftover clay I greet the great mist from the blindfolded eyes I want it all, but I crave none Where the grey meets my grave, I exist as one