My heart is a volcanic cold stone,
And each eye is motley bead,
And my body is Derelict hulk,
And my tears are poisoned lead.
yet, I feel like an ordinary man,
I smile, talk, hallucinate and cry,
And sit and walk and have a trance,
And breathe, yet my veins are dry.
I believe I have a sweet foster home,
A room in the garden and a flower,
Who talks to me every calm evening,
About springs and her idol weather.
My eyes reflects colors of the world,
None of them creeps into doughy brain,
And a mirror in me is blinded in design,
And intuition reads past in future's pain.
O, soul's false myth of heavenly feet,
Thy seraphic dreams no longer exist;
And thy stories are defeated glories,
Piled ashen that can't, a puff, resist.