There is a hollowness: shape without form.
Hallowed and concentric circles splayed against a canvas
Deep red, veins in hand with epitomes and documents of what has ceased to be.
What was leased to me...?
A dying light in fragile arms?
An art amidst your victory march for me to chase; for me to run?
For me to torment you and I until we fall again;
Amidst a calm and cooling breeze,
amidst our spiritual dis-ease as our shadows stretch across the land?
This is the twilight of my very oeuvre, or so I fear.
I fear the end is near, as though time itself were befit by grace to crawl and to walk,
to seethe as fit with entropy.
But, surely this is but a heinous vision?
The order is so very apparent, still.
Order out of Chaos...
I feel as though I've fallen short..
The myriad of misanthropes I've slain and had reborn,
the rising tide of shedded skin that by my hands was wrought,
the countless names and faces of a destitute and witless being all discarded by the Way.
O', what a pity it may be to balk at one's mortality
for within but a blink all is naught but dust and ash,
soil and smoke, oil and water,
and the whispering of the winds
as they propagate the flames.
"Still, a temple stands amidst the smoulders, does it not?
Did you not think that the Pilgrim's Way would be fraught
with the trials and the tests of your hopes and fears laid bare upon the rocks?
What great cowardice is on display, with your writhing and your self-dismay!
Are you a man, are you a mouse?
Or are you but a foolish child
who's come to cry out in the middle of the night?
Or is it that you're divine?
Born to live and born to die as the waxing and the waning of the tides.
Have you come to cry?
Have you come to revel in the imposition of your Exile?
Tell me, Pilgrim...
What is it that you seek?
Because it's all so simple.
Can't you see?"
O', what are the chances
that I would come to see with such great ease?
O', so blind and weary, perspective seems so out of reach.
O', what are the chances
that I would come to keep a realisation held so near and deep for more than a day?
I might find balance.
I might find ecstasy.
But I won't.
So as it transpires, I'll go the only way I know,
to the sea, to the song.
I shall be lured unto the rocks to fall and to fail,
to seek to no avail.
This dance, I'll do no more,
of time's unending waltz.
I've sought to no avail,
I have tried and I have failed.
So, this dance I'll do no more,
of time's unending waltz.
Hallowed and concentric circles splayed against a canvas
Deep red, veins in hand with epitomes and documents of what has ceased to be.
What was leased to me...?
A dying light in fragile arms?
An art amidst your victory march for me to chase; for me to run?
For me to torment you and I until we fall again;
Amidst a calm and cooling breeze,
amidst our spiritual dis-ease as our shadows stretch across the land?
This is the twilight of my very oeuvre, or so I fear.
I fear the end is near, as though time itself were befit by grace to crawl and to walk,
to seethe as fit with entropy.
But, surely this is but a heinous vision?
The order is so very apparent, still.
Order out of Chaos...
I feel as though I've fallen short..
The myriad of misanthropes I've slain and had reborn,
the rising tide of shedded skin that by my hands was wrought,
the countless names and faces of a destitute and witless being all discarded by the Way.
O', what a pity it may be to balk at one's mortality
for within but a blink all is naught but dust and ash,
soil and smoke, oil and water,
and the whispering of the winds
as they propagate the flames.
"Still, a temple stands amidst the smoulders, does it not?
Did you not think that the Pilgrim's Way would be fraught
with the trials and the tests of your hopes and fears laid bare upon the rocks?
What great cowardice is on display, with your writhing and your self-dismay!
Are you a man, are you a mouse?
Or are you but a foolish child
who's come to cry out in the middle of the night?
Or is it that you're divine?
Born to live and born to die as the waxing and the waning of the tides.
Have you come to cry?
Have you come to revel in the imposition of your Exile?
Tell me, Pilgrim...
What is it that you seek?
Because it's all so simple.
Can't you see?"
O', what are the chances
that I would come to see with such great ease?
O', so blind and weary, perspective seems so out of reach.
O', what are the chances
that I would come to keep a realisation held so near and deep for more than a day?
I might find balance.
I might find ecstasy.
But I won't.
So as it transpires, I'll go the only way I know,
to the sea, to the song.
I shall be lured unto the rocks to fall and to fail,
to seek to no avail.
This dance, I'll do no more,
of time's unending waltz.
I've sought to no avail,
I have tried and I have failed.
So, this dance I'll do no more,
of time's unending waltz.