Lost but not found, in the desperation of time, of those who do not deceive, and words that echo from no sound. You speak, but mumble, you walk, but crawl. For all to see, yet still be blind, from art to the darkness of pain, the beauty of tragedy, for what may come to be is only the beginning, for the end is only a door away, yet we cannot assume those of whom have made this life are waiting for the beggars. For do we bow down to them? Do we beg at their feet, our knees scraping the ground for the forgiveness that is thought to be lost. For is there shame in such a love, that dark and light could be aligned, or is all lost? For whats spoken in such a way that could throw your own self in front of a bus, what only, and if could be said, found, endeared in such a way. Step by step the worthy fox took, for if it was the faux. Was he a fake? Of all the intentions why must you feel the guilt of others. Desperation, time, pride, passion, crime, devotion. What words collide with un-opened doors, yet still are seen through in such a way, of which those of whom lie still in the dark, for fear of the devil might just eat their soul. All is left, all is gone. For fate, for destiny, faith hope, hate love. Evil yet evil. Thou art is the beauty of a soul, but a clouded figure of none the other than yourself, feel what is meant to be felt, as the colors of the light shine down on me to open the puzzle, what puzzle, a puzzle to the steeple of heaven and hell, it breaches the very sanity of falling up yet down. So far from close, barely is only bearing the right to running, talking, being who you want to be, but yet we must keep quiet....