I see the madness around.
Human instincts.
Urban landscapes.
Music into the void.
They try to catch you.
Police of the mind.
And I’m trying to leave.
And I’m trying to run from this game.
I always run, run from the prison.
No chance to be saved. It’s useless.
Poetry’s dead.
Music is dead.
I play to the void.
It may be a whisper. It may be a scream.
It doesn’t matter what I will sing.
Beautiful voice if death. I can hear it.
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