Some people call me crazy...
Some threadbare significance attached to nothing but a sky-blue line of sunset
Sometimes a bird call off in the distance; moon shines bright right down on me.
I get feelings of gentle north breezes, as if snowfall is on its way
Though winter is long gone. The birds are coming back to wake me.
Grass has come again. Flowers and blossoms on their way. Leaves appearing.
On a field of blue and scarlet rise towers of all our dreams.
Some gold gated effigy, some kind of greater less than sign from our emotions equating the rational thought with the irrational feelings of the heart.
Sometimes I hear the harp strings off in the distance, calling my feet to move
As if I had control of the movements of the planets themselves.
Sometimes I think there's a path in front of me, other times I feel like I'm hackin' through the brush, losing all direction of where I'm supposed to be.
And the harp plays on, still leading me toward the inevitable
With wolves, kind and sincere, my brethren, accompanying me, always loyal.
THey will help me find my own way through the darkness of my night.
Do I disappear when I commit to my own release, do I somehow fade?
How do I answer a question I have not the comprehension of asking?
Because I have no outlet, sitting alone and mumbling stories that make no sense....
All central lines run counter form. Switching angles and changing perspectives makes lines of reality appear uneven, new lines are put into place and wheels are set into motion. And reality shifts into a different drive, begins to see beyond, under and through designs of different calculations, of motivations unknown.
That furrows the depths of my heart and soul like some invisible plow...
I stand on the knifes edge, the brink of an unnamable cliff.
My eyes two signal lanterns, beacons for those who might follow.
Beating myself inside out for the stall, for waiting here with open hands
I look down into the mists and lightning flashes of the valley below.
The faces of worn souls slowly climbing, cut and torn from the process.
THe handholds are treacherous, unstable, and ready to fall away.
THe black obsidian hands of rock reach out from the cliff face,
THe hands of anger, despair, excess, frustration, regret, bigotry
Intent on seizing the unwary climber, to throw them back down.
Down into the squalor of addiction, isolation and desparation.
I stand here as mute witness, sweating sadness from every pore.
Cursing these feet for not moving onward. Waiting for one to take my place.
So that I, in good conscience, can move again. But no one wants to be the witness.
And so I stand, ready to reach out for the next hand to come over the edge.
Deaf to the demons of my mind tempting me to leave them to their struggle.
Going deeper and deeper in some cyclic spiral of knowledge and wisdom...
Born of grunge, salt water seaweed wearin' mud rollin' anti-order sludge
On a bank of some post-apocalyptic river, I sit and simmer as clay
Runs between my fingers, sit and wait for some clock to sound that hasn't been wound in a thousand years. Sit and wait for those bells to tell me all their hidden secrets, forbidden pain. You'll never know the depths of muddy waters, sons and daughters screaming out their lungs for some unknown reason. Cause they can't breathe the air you've been breathin unaware your whole life. Carrying tonnage of grief and regret, and when all lights dim, all bets are off.
Until the central core of being is finally reached.
