it's all in the head.

the child was born, and out he came
into a vivid darkness of pretty lights,
fallacy, betryal, all unknown,
God's chosen one, told the wisemen
and he never let them down, did he?
And then, he grew up.

a little cigarette by the backdoor,
and a cluster of psychedelia.
the boy, was now a man,
a mere shadow of the times gone by,
needing always this bit more, this little bit more than himself.

the sound of silence was what he heard,
walked on water, fed on thunderstorms,
and only but he could light a fire with snowflake.

it's all in the head, mind over matter.

the rivers have gone dry,
white hair and wrinkles are his subjects of rule,
old man, old old man,
wilting, dying.
he didn't want it this way,


he screams, "i did not deserve this."
a voice in the head, possibly an outburst,
'think again, maybe you did.'
it's all in the head, mind over matter;
but funny how it stands, when the mind itself is in tatters.