Last night of August, driven to despair,
The pack, the scent, late Parisian air.
Cornered in the back, of some dream machine,
Head toward mid night, fairy tale obscene.
In a diamond flash, glints the glass soul's pain,
Sons that she has left, young as morning rain.
Stars in the sky dark, imitate her eyes,
With still burning sight, the mortal lense cries.
Lovers clasping hands, tighten in the speed,
Prisoned in escape, overwhelming need.
Fatal turn of fate, coming round the bend,
Roulette for wheel, role come to an end.
Back a rat that drives the Chemin de fear,
Blind to the mirror, overtake fifth gear.
In the tunnel trance, all the bets are blind,
'Rien ne va plus' time, last call to the mind.
In one moment crushed, by a crown of thorn,
Steel bursts her beauty, like a blush rose dawn.
Crucified in flight, broken in the dream,
Thrown to the jackals, paparazzi scream.