The old man sits in his room
In a compleate gloom
Thinking of his doom
Wishing he would have bloomed
Into a different costume
That’s happier than him
At the moment his room is dim and slim
He sings his depressing hymns
Pressing to get a blessing
Always stressing on guessing
If his prayers will be answered
From the man who cares, upstairs
Getting chills, his arm hairs stand up
Seeing a grand hand expand to him
Standing in grace, he see’s his face
His archangel came from outerspace
To embrace his lonely trace
“You didn’t erase your faith
it was just misplaced.
Stop chasing a base
and just brace where you are.
Stop living bizarre and pray to the north star.”
This man is no longer scarred
He can do anything he puts his mind to
Whether he has no clue and is blue
He remembers the sky is blue too
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