Often eyes channel orange to the grinning pheniox and windows become an enemy to my want of steps that went back to the future without me, I rather be lied to by the world than something created to see gold with me, a castle filled with gems from our mouths and smiles from white tables high above our crowns that were placed to not find one. A bed fit for a king only awaiting a dose of a heart beat to make music with, lips that makes centuries when they meet,backs that never turn,colors of spirit to never see a shade of black and legs that remain as an offering to my royal seed. This death is my revival, my understanding,my teacher that in order to get what you want, you must first be greedy for the bow if deserved.