The King, the crown

Where's the passion or the pleasure?
That old feeling we couldn't measure
Encrypited messages from old vultures
Blackmailed letters from the future

Those foundations seem to rust each day
They cannot be rebuilt or destroyed
They'll be the founding stone
Of the day the king was discarded

And i can't cope its killing me
The smoke blocking any sign of clarity
Confusion, illusion and no conclusion
A masterpiece witch represents my ambitions

When did you become my enemy?
Tell me when it happened and how you did it
Because it's been hard to believe in it

Every battle has it's winner, but both sides hold their casualties.
Even when the winner is singing proud spilling vanities

Is your talking just a tool that keeps you safe from what you do
or just a bitter melody playing while i'm hearing the whole truth?
What have i become? How did i get this sort of hate?
Is it just irony playing dirty
Or my total lack of faith?

It's not the softest dreams
neither sound or sight unseen
Not the smoke nor the darkening
Neither scenery, park or building
The king is old and ill but far from dead
It's hard to breathe but still the crown over his head

And he holds one last lesson
His last precious advice
"What you're carrying in your heart
Can't be hidden from your mind."