Expectectations gets us broken,
Enough of it gets us turned torn,
For their bet is on a higher clown.

Who stumbles to present the unknown,
He is, who bids to our only struggles,
Who defines the scopes of an only fight,
To win over that which we feel not right,
He is, who is solemn and strikes the light,
And defines sparkles in the presents we gift.

Higher expectations gets us mistaken,
Granted to be meaningless to be taken,
We are, whose are wrapped in bags woven,
And cast into their maze, the ill-chosen.

Our potion of love then is ill fated,
Dimmed by the brights motioned,
The striked lights lit from ours,
Slow walks, talks of fixtures,
For a future, equally weighted.