N.A.

S I'm painting potent poetry, to be pictured by those owing me, While I'm pouring golden water, for my only daughter; Who though I be Midas is accustom to my touch, And is never bias towards certain luck. Concentrating on things I probably shouldn't, I chose this path because I was told I wouldn't. Now there's a demon on my back, in need of what he lacks. Greed, anger, malice and pain, I wonder why they're not feeling too strange. I feed him change, and I feel at peace, But I feel a peace of me become deceased. While the beast, enjoys his feast, I toil away on my leash; If only he would treat. Often I question what I've become, And hardly mention what I've done, To those most likely to listen and these days I'm wishing my affinity for my five sense to take six isn't accepted, Because if it is, I won't live to regret it. Now I've figured the mission, from visions shown to me as I lay, To rest like all creatures do, when I heard a voice say: Now it is time, for the world to turn the page, I give them you, behold, Son of the New Age.