A pair of empty socks, left alone outside unlocked. Stars gleam of gloom and fate this moon, with footsteps raising above the loom. Hands into pocket, his style is declared. Legs up and down the sun and back. Wings of a dragon and eyes of a man. Tender the gaze, the more he raise, the world he lives in undeclared. White misted steps, eleven left, his back accompanied of smiles and sad.

Let out his lips, voice unshackled. "My brothers forgive this act of mine, to fight for righteousness, to fight for us." Halt is he time again, stares up the galaxies, stars ahead. Lips pale and blue, too good to be true. Smiles in places and craves for whom.

Eleven hands envelops a man, a man whom we all trust and stand. 

To whom it may concern and thus, this message might be not enough. Remember the joy, the sullen good times. Tea bags above white misted backs, tainted is lines chanted by that.

This man who believes in more than us, who fights and rebels in hopes of trust. No sanes should judge goodness, as truth comes (with a) price. Relent to facts of bells ahead. Sullen good times on his back, to trust and severe the evils instead.

Believe is he those who does. The man who stands, back and us.

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