Between the Devil and the Sky, my eyes bend,
spy on a wasted fortune that died.
Comprehend this jolted mind,
how I loathed the sublime
and sought to catch the winds.
Benign, my heart beats to time.
I beseeched the lie that I didn't cry.
This fortune that was, vastly ghosted
because I afforded nothing but blood.
The cost of pain is inevitably plain,
for my money drained in the well of hate.

Between the Devil and the Sky, my heart raced,
flied in the death of embered peace.
For Grace besought swollen hate.
In the hype of broken types,
the peace desired became dire.
And then came another phase, flooding
all enemies to Fate.
The once fortune pulled the grate
and melted me to flames.
Now I seek to pine with a hopeless dime
whose hope to chime is a charmed deny.