He recharges the orange venom in a state of gentle opium.
He explodes on a naked stage, I get cut with a shard of brain, the rest of the audience lay still and asleep. Their breathing sounds weak.
But it seems as though his skin is warm, in winter he's a melted home.
Summer: He's a pond of hope.
At this pond I give him a bud of cinnamon flower
That he then carries in his pocket through water
through wet earth and smoke that chokes my nose and smells of burn
Seasons that he creates in a psychotic film.
But all in all he rides the ponies in the clouds, And he will never come down.
Conducting colors down below, calms, snows.
murders and murders of crows.
And in the end the bud blooms wider than a universe
And his venom is the polin to its sence of consciousness
And meaning of life