An empty cup with no bottom, In an dusty room, lies her empty soul, Like a solitary apple thats rotten, And me the lowly maggot hole, Finally, slowly the bell tolls the time, And a peasant sits with his heart in tatters, Humming, lost to the towers chime, The infinte illusion shatters, Random images and thoughts in a fractal pattern, Emotions revolving like colours in a wheel, Thinking of my moon, my saturn, The one that dosn't feel, She, the empty cup, the room, illusion, Is real to me, the impetious youth, That i made her fit my delusion, I cower from this hidden truth,