Oh confusion of joy, made this beauty blind, No song of you, could make me see, that unknown sorrow, brought a nameless pain, Even though were free, you and me. Our happiness comes at a price, near or far, Reading under sheets, the words of Poets that write through nights, under lamps of warmth, Fearing the sun, its bitter cold. And all they need is seven short lines of poem, To fill with words so some will see, That beauty is truth, and the only thing real, Reality, all your soul needs. And your awful face, eternal debt to fame, found in the sky hazy and red, as your cracked porcelain soul spilled words of shame, over stormy fields soaked in dew, and a time came, oh how we wanted to say, how very proud we are of you. But fear made you cry, was it fear of the dark? Or the light, a potential spark, the hint of light you lost, the flame you forgot, buried away, under the sun. In the frost of night, on the day our joy died, Singing durges in the snowy cold.