Too young to be sane, too old to be inane
Like to call my self Red, worry its my blood that smoulders
Enchanted is my heart for it falls apart and is back whole,
deviant is my soul, regaining that which tides of fate stole.
I hear these chords, struck on harps made in a world beyond,
thay fill my mind with promises and with miracles again I bond.
I walk on the rope and cross a strait while the wind roars,
only to falter midway, seeing the brawl on the rocky shores.
The smells are all different now, I see a fire around me,
eyes burn in that color, of insanity speaks the gramyree.
I hang midway, lost enchanted with the premise of the demise
of doom withheld, heretofore of jade and shade I surmise.
Last on the walk, I come across remananents of my own hex,
frightening, inspiring, astonishing, intensifying my vex.
I wonder, if its a blessing or in disguise a wretched bane?
Why am I too young to be sane, too old to be inane?