A cycle of fifths command his existence and success. Now perched on his old stone throne. On his cold stone throne. Draws his hair back. These locks that he once had somebody else pull back for him. He can't remember the number of women who did. Father to children he doesn't know. These chains around his neck are the only bonds that remain. A locket is kissed. Flung and thrown.
Curled up like a child would. There's a disturbing drip in his castle wall and soon this fortress that he built will under water drown. Teardrops of women. A raging storm outside his window that now ceases to stop till retribution has taken its due course.
These blades called his conscience that severe. So run across this garden. Run to find the day.
For this domain is yours and under seige.
Run from your fortress.
Run.
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