Clinging on the edge of own hippocrytes,
can't find a cloak that would really fit,
in center of the spiral you're stand still,
and you feel on your spine the freezing chill.
Your past is snapping up your heels,
you future is drowning underneath,
stacks of books they all have seals,
of broken dreams and a wreath,
on the top to mourn the hatered,
that you later did regret.
And days like these when sun won't shine,
when lovers in the streets won't rhyme,
when your smile is bitter as a lime,
when you almost feel the time,
you are defenceless,
and demons that waited and danced round your skull,
penetrate your armor and puncturize your hull,
and feast on flesh of your growing fear,
that you started to disappear.