There is a weight upon me, still;
the quivering stench of the incomplete,
looming, terrible.
I can barely breathe...
This isn't what I thought this would be...
Toil with me, if you will.
I'm sorry, O', God!
I'm sorry!
I left you there...
O' God, I left you there...
Might this be my atonement, might my sacrifice be done.
I will die here on this Mountain.
I bid thy circle's closing.
I bid Thee end this Pilgrim's Path.
I bid my will be done with blood unto this ink
with which I scribe my final words.
And so it is done.
So mote it be.
So I pray for peace amidst the madness.
Be free, be without pain,
and receive thy Holy Mountain.
With all that said and done,
here's the truth of the matter.
No masks, no games.
Not anymore.
See, I brought this upon myself.
But let it not be said that this was anything but spurious at its very best.
The tides of change have ebbed and flowed between a multitude of ones and zeroes.
And was it not clear from the start that this was all to be transient?
How does one reconcile the ramifications of a tale that's no longer relevant?
The answer is...
You don't.
Because even if it's no longer relevant to me, it's still relevant to someone;
and a story once told will speak to those still headlong in the storm,
still torn asunder and dashed against the rocks.
O' Westward Men!
O' Faceless Men!
O' Men of Race of Rose!
O' Darkened Souls still yet to come!
Walk all you one and all you same to tread your sullen path
where the fissures and your sorrow heals
before your Holy Mount.
But mark my words, the storm will come again.
It always comes again.
And in its clutches will there lay the madness and the ecstasy
of the singular and Holy Tale exploded onto the canvas.
Even if it does not come from me there are a thousand men who came before
and millions who will yet come after.
With that said I refuse to let a human being hang on my every waking word
when I cannot extend that same courtesy to myself.
To do so would be a fallacy when I recognise the error of my own ways
and I, too, am to be held accountable.
Aren't we all?
But I digress...
See...
It wasn't so clear at the start, but this would all be transient and I got lost along the way,
gripped within the murk of my own poetry and beheld by my mistakes.
See, the intention was for healing but what I've found is not the same.
See, this path is fraught with anger and the Way is fraught with rage
beheld towards the ignorant and simple minds who'd see us to decay.
And I refuse to be a martyr and I refuse to be a saint,
but so they say...
This is what happens in the mountains.
I have come so far from home only to find I must return,
and I am sorry,
this is what happens in the mountains.
I have come so far from home only to find I must return,
and I am sorry.
I have come so far from home only to find I must return,
and I am sorry,
this is what happens in the mountains.
I have come so far from home only to find I must return,
and I am sorry.
But I have nothing else to say.
the quivering stench of the incomplete,
looming, terrible.
I can barely breathe...
This isn't what I thought this would be...
Toil with me, if you will.
I'm sorry, O', God!
I'm sorry!
I left you there...
O' God, I left you there...
Might this be my atonement, might my sacrifice be done.
I will die here on this Mountain.
I bid thy circle's closing.
I bid Thee end this Pilgrim's Path.
I bid my will be done with blood unto this ink
with which I scribe my final words.
And so it is done.
So mote it be.
So I pray for peace amidst the madness.
Be free, be without pain,
and receive thy Holy Mountain.
With all that said and done,
here's the truth of the matter.
No masks, no games.
Not anymore.
See, I brought this upon myself.
But let it not be said that this was anything but spurious at its very best.
The tides of change have ebbed and flowed between a multitude of ones and zeroes.
And was it not clear from the start that this was all to be transient?
How does one reconcile the ramifications of a tale that's no longer relevant?
The answer is...
You don't.
Because even if it's no longer relevant to me, it's still relevant to someone;
and a story once told will speak to those still headlong in the storm,
still torn asunder and dashed against the rocks.
O' Westward Men!
O' Faceless Men!
O' Men of Race of Rose!
O' Darkened Souls still yet to come!
Walk all you one and all you same to tread your sullen path
where the fissures and your sorrow heals
before your Holy Mount.
But mark my words, the storm will come again.
It always comes again.
And in its clutches will there lay the madness and the ecstasy
of the singular and Holy Tale exploded onto the canvas.
Even if it does not come from me there are a thousand men who came before
and millions who will yet come after.
With that said I refuse to let a human being hang on my every waking word
when I cannot extend that same courtesy to myself.
To do so would be a fallacy when I recognise the error of my own ways
and I, too, am to be held accountable.
Aren't we all?
But I digress...
See...
It wasn't so clear at the start, but this would all be transient and I got lost along the way,
gripped within the murk of my own poetry and beheld by my mistakes.
See, the intention was for healing but what I've found is not the same.
See, this path is fraught with anger and the Way is fraught with rage
beheld towards the ignorant and simple minds who'd see us to decay.
And I refuse to be a martyr and I refuse to be a saint,
but so they say...
This is what happens in the mountains.
I have come so far from home only to find I must return,
and I am sorry,
this is what happens in the mountains.
I have come so far from home only to find I must return,
and I am sorry.
I have come so far from home only to find I must return,
and I am sorry,
this is what happens in the mountains.
I have come so far from home only to find I must return,
and I am sorry.
But I have nothing else to say.