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