My Mirage slowly fades into a jagged, transparent illusion of what I never was
A delicate construction of a breathless tale
It's all so contrived
A frail thread to hang upon, fraying at the tips
Now at the hands of Fate, with her knuckles so white
Just a cleave, a snip from crimson shears, to end this bitter prophecy
My sanctuary lies in flames, my heart tainted by ashes
Like an angel without wings, a man without a shadow,
A wolf without a howl