My life less g'stohl'n

You see my past through simple frames,
This picket wall will never change
The joy, from morning, I receive
As midnight crumbs roll from my sleeve.

My foot lay wait above the ground
And darkened beams of light abound.
The treasure sweet will rest her head
And sing 'til all the queens are dead.

These spoiled cries and tattered spires
Will carve their words with willing fires.
The masses sound their pale revolt,
Their songs implore with stifling hope.

The armies clash in shattered streams,
Their helmets washed in crimson gleam,
She stands upon the petrous floor,
Her pride will raise their spirits poor.

On it rolls, the war, the battle,
Shedding souls, their goal unrattled.
Idols sound quick trumps of After,
Hope, alone, amidst the laughter.

And in the end their dreams are dying,
Pulling, tearing, pushing, trying,
Fighting for a flash of reason,
Sweet projects the end of season.