The blade in my hand fell again, for reasons I yet again can't explain.
Upward the roads my goal was, but the goal slipped between my paws.
I shall still have to keep this mask up, because I have spilled my Queen's Cup.
Maybe I can mend or fix the damage done, or else oblivion has won.
I'm still the saint and the sinner, the dirty loser and stinking winner.
Truth and faith are the tools I take too far, which in the end leaves people with a scar.
Repeating the foolishness endlessly still now, maybe I should step back and take a bow?
Leave the wisdom of affairs to an other, and not be people's greatest bother.
Or step forward once more and carry the burdens of life, because all of it is a strife.
Anyhow my role is still not cast, the final moment not yet passed.
Still having a choice to make, its a deal of bind or break.
Be a honorable beggar or foolish king, no idea what answers time will bring.
I need a new form to guide my hand, so stand by me and expand.
For now ill pick up the blade