Nothing but my madness to create No spark, no hark of herald angels sounding out my fate No reason, but the legion that I buried with myself No thought beyond my own resort of wealth, condemned to shelf And so I'm free to simply be and float within the cloud To rhyme or scan or simply damn the dreams inside my head I feel so small inside the shroud that sanctifies the dead I am just bones, the flesh and tomes of voices past...aloud I'm held within the pyramid, of vanity and "what they did" Forgotten and begotten of my pride A sin-phoney within, for me ascension is denied My vanity, my "always me" to me is now applied