Hearing the colors of these fallacy drop,
alas the music does waltz before it comes to a stop;
whilst I glimpse the pigments of rufescent blood,
that my house of heart they have chosen to flood;
bathing the ode of my clothes and my rooms,
in colors full of dirt and wicked glooms;
and this feat I cannot seem to repair,
as the wicked's laughter churns in my despair;
with the coming of the rising havoc,
staining red on my unearthing hammock;
wondering away from the glimmering eyes of truth,
glimpsing glares from obsidian hair so smooth;
and so I stand in my vortex of sadness,
which brings me to the brink of eternal madness;
and forthcoming is my impending doom,
while all the shadows laugh and boom;
as now is the ode of the truth and destruction,
upon which I rely on the doom of my own deduction.