The old man, in his oaken chair, he turns around, his eyes turn up to me. Older tales, many years engraved in him, mirrored in him, for all to see. As I see him there, grey and empty, I know, I am still alive. My mind is full of little pieces, waiting to be found. All to be found, on my only human ride, all to be found, listen, one by one. My bodys roaming now, looking for ages to be found. I dream of valleys far beyond. I will come again, like the storm I will return, Ill follow this pilgrims path to the end He knows everything, now thats too much for me, there is so much left to see. I am not afraid when my end is near. Ill murder the fear, because I will come again. Ill murder the fear, when I become him.
found, murder, oaken, pilgrim, mirrored