I am balancing a tight rope,

strung on the edges of my mind

And though falling will mean certain death,

the thrill remains sublime.

I ask myself; does my morals stretch above the sky-rise castles,

or does the dwindling moon, that sets too soon,

Pass it at horizons edge

where it lays in a state of vassal?

Then as the compass gyrates,

declaring the chaos and insanity that surrounds me,

I try to find the balance of sanity

STAINED by the blood from my hands,

and trampled by the blisters I rest my feet upon.

I beg myself to breath it in,

just one more time,

just once!

Whilst I urge myself to move with deportment

Through the trails demarcated by the houses of the living

And the highways of the dead

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