Here the edges of world are frayed,
And the men are lot less quiet,
There is an odor at the end of day,
That lingers through the night.
Here vacant eyes are full of grief,
They see fire with cold flame,
Raging through life which says;
Dream and death are same.
Here flowers bloom in hot winter morn,
Come spring they turn to dust,
There is gold like dirt upon the roads,
And the kingdoms are made of rust.
Here marionettes sit on thrones,
By the virtue they can’t stand,
The Angels see this as misery,
But the Devil understands.