Man is a drowning fish, he cries Because he lacks the strength to fight The waves of noise and his own lies While he knows that in truthβs stark light
His weakened lungs would fail to fill Lacking now all natural strength Having sacrificed his poor will To demons whom he knows, at length
Were promising him naught but dust Yet nonetheless he made the deal And trembles now, for so he must, Smitten by wounds he cannot heal
Flying not to his secret soul For that sanctuary has been Defiled, it is no longer whole The enemy has been let in
And one fears to wade past that stream Of mere half-conscious surface thought Pretending rather lifeβs a dream Instead of the nightmare we ought
To face, for in the mindβs deep heart Conscience promises solitude Inescapable, and to start Is to be finished. Attitude
Cannot avail us here, pretence Is futile; only a real flight Into the desert, sans defence, Resolve to stand and die, to fight.