There's a beauty in dying when trying
To be the person that doesn't hide from anguish
He sits, as a recluse, silhouettes in the background
Sauntering to nothingness, yet his patience
Replaces itself to bottled up frustration
When the notes clang in dissonance,
The pain felt by the ignorance around
The tasteless to subject; context overrides intention
He lives alone in the withered house
No television show that can get about
Intellectual prowess, capturing motions
Of a tornado strike in his imagination
Twinkling piano, fingers agile, in a race
Yet the clock ticks with his decay
A
There's a beauty in dying when trying To be the person that doesn't hide from…
