What is real? What is true? It seems that I don’t have a clue
To what, in fact, did transpire and now my imagination, I retire.
All I wanted was to be with you but apparently my truths aren’t true
And so now I’m lost and I require the elixir to make my mind expire
The fire that runs down my throat is, from your cold, my coat
The clink of the glass when they kiss is now my one and only bliss
And as I sail in my fragile boat, I spurn myself with the lines I wrote.
Oh wretched me, why did thou exist, to burn in the hell of my own piss.
To live only inside my imagination; in a world only, of my creation
Where I thought you did reside til the truth did you confide
So in paradise, my immigration to this Russian bottle’s nation
Is hither forth, what I decide as my heart continues to divide.
In the seas of this useless suffering, I drift lonely, it is tiring
But the way is clear and I do not depart, instead I chase my stupid heart
Inside this scarlet bottle still caring for the dream which is flickering
Dying and being reborn is an art and thus I go back from where this all start.