Inside there’s hunger, an appetite for disaster. Feasting on your presence only makes it last longer. But I’m far from the jury, I wouldn’t dare cross your presence with the tip of my finger. Are you receptive of my fever; conscious of your power? Ironically, I hear less everytime you speak louder. I find true beauty in your essence but less sense in your anger. In a battle to death, does anybody get stronger? Or do you look upon the remains, laugh now and cry later? Impressed about how I turn vilainy into rhymes? You were much more direct when you’d count on me through tough times. Heaven was so pleasant and seemed so far from hell, no wonder you never spoke since only time could tell.