The wise of the living and dead.

The wrinkled, yet the fed.

Those that have never fled,

And those who have seen blue from red.

Thy master.

You have experienced such disaster,

But you capture a picture.

A land of candy canes,

And ribbon roads.

The sweetest mysteries that are never told.

For your gold is of a high palace,

With blood filling your eternal chalice.

Forbidden fruits of knowledge grow in your tree.

Cometh to only one of thee,

But not of the young or me.

The younger me,

Can only wish to see what you see.

And wish to be what you are.

But your touch is a poison that fills my blood at a bar.

Oh, master.

Take me by the hand,

And show me the world of broken branches.

That land that is hanged by the sugar masks of society.