not sure, vacant, fake, the one, sinful, salty, erratic, mad, for thy crazy. Sitting upon an oak tree, tied in shreds, sorrow and shadows take form and its all the feds. preaching soft notes intertwined like fine lace and spider webs, tear into my soul and fire upon my head. weary yet going on, shifting the thoughts, in my head, crafting new center folds, nothing is left or dead. Empty plots of hope, shatter my growing pain, visions that once were, now are grey and dreary old paint. A lot of me hates this line, some of it is but time, growing in more agony, pure cancer pales in this instance. Contrary to what ones thinks, the minds can flat out sink, in theory it is what it is so this green line can stand and weep.