Personal misfortune is my fuel,
I burn it in order produce.
describe in perfect words a world cruel,
a cabaret of emotions to use or abuse.

Say,romance is gone
and there are no more risen dead
there's nothing astonishing,dull is the dawn.
no monsters crawl under your bed.

To steal the teeth of your beloved one it's now simply a crime.
no towers left,no secret doors.
Just wretched clones chewing and spitting the same rhyme.

Your opinion sustains me,I sustain your opinion
we exhange intentions in many forms to reach our goals.
A game of master and minion,
where we can easily reverse the roles.

Oh,where is the raven?
Where is Lenore?
Nothing above my chamber door.

The world needs no poets when poetry is dead.
No visions and dreams,no tentancles of the great and old
mad is the one who still keeps such horrors in his head
count your limbs,today only flesh is worth to be sold.

Latex replaced velvet,plastic replaced glass
with skilled metal fingers turn my fantasies to ash.

Abandon the victorian grace,
no need for more gloom.
swip away every trace
with your merciless broom.

I create a vision with no meaning at all
eat,vomit and serve the same song
another butterfly pinned on the wall
trying to realise what went wrong.

Poetry is dead.