Your eyes are bland.
Like glass from sand.
An overindulging temperance,
a wicked thought of prudence.
A virtue all the same.
Patience as time drags on,
my greatest quality is most boring.
I wonder if...
This farce is worth the thought.
A saint am I?
A wolf howling at a moonless sky?
Possibly...
Possibly...
Sum it up from time and space?
I am a nobleman's fall from grace.
