Set aside the temporary from the Elite,
those who need to drink and smell of the weak;
as opposed to those who actually think.
Those with the ability to move your feet,
to make you bleed,
to cut a beam through the darkness with a true meaning…
In Father Time’s marching succession, we all lose our sense of direction
We all lose the protections – so taken for granted
We all suffer the rejections, expectations, clumsily recanted.
Just like an ever-spinning and revolving door –
The entrance to any exit you’ve taken before,
The world spins on, akin to this motion
No destruction, no corruption, no plastic island in the ocean.
And we move like magma from the earth to the sky –
Innately in need – – – but never realizing why…
Through the webs of woven time and space
intricate: the wrinkles in Father Time’s face.
Look beyond what has already been created,
The Elite dwindle there on a clock, unabated.
Look behind! The endless prospects – overlooked,
Stuck to each other like the pages of a book.
Us down there among them, fading too fast,
The waves turn and tumble with the weight of our mass;
Chaos consumes with the flash of a sky-diamond bolt,
Darkness – weakness, the blank page of results.
O! Wise One – O! Great One…
O! Creators high and supreme:
Please taste all of my teardrops,
And wake up terrified from my dreams;
be so kind as to enlighten me
in the warmth of old world Mysteries.
I’ve served my time for my mortal crimes…
I implore thee: show the way to me.