The colours, red and yellow and green,
And the Dark in the light chrome,
The stretched curves in the sketch,
And the blurred sight of Another home.
It's not me,
It might be acid,
But I don't know.
The beeps preceding the singular note,
And the percussion beaten free,
And a bird sings in the background,
The sound is incoherent harmony.
It can't be me,
They say it's acid,
But I don't know.
This is the smell of withered roses,
Where does it come from, petals or thorns?
But it is indeed a pleasant fragrance,
And I feel like an infant, newly born.
It might be me,
It almost is acid,
But I don't know.
And now I feel the pinch,
So this is what they call pain,
I feel warm like the steel in the daylight,
And the drops that strike me, might be rain.
Oh! Yes.
It is me,
And it is acid.
But I will never know.
