He made an armour of dust,
and he plated it with fine metal,
And everyday, he wore it above his dreaded heart,
And covered it with his smile that often seemed too fatal,

He sew his wounds himself,
with handmade threads and shaking hands,
in the silence of the night, 
that bled from his eyes,

He had built his place far away,
with no windows or doors,
with it’s walls too high,
and the floor too cold,

And every often when
his solitude became too overwhelming,
when the voices of unknown,
cried out louder that his own,
He filled the lucent air around him,
with smoke
And with his shaking hands,
he held his glass of golden liquor,
With the false hope to make that escape
from his own world little by little.