It all became some big mess as joy was slowly sapped
Like resin from a tree ? While the days there grew darker..
Inspiration lost their wings yet no one cared what used to seem
Our playground and these seasons passed us by or better, still me
Holding on to nothing now but ghost in this machine ? Whom should we pity
Myself perhaps they I think the children we're all infants; priceless heart's...
Surely I find his own amid, their tear stained looking glass of youth ? Shall she
Beauty ever dance again a life her breath these dreams it used to be, our playground.