My most insidious one,
How dark my days were
When you floated along
The river of the forgotten.
Memories fall like ashes in the sky
Draping us in their reverent soot
As we lay on the stonebed
That was hardened by our love.
Like a winged creature,
You soar to the ends of the worlds.
You're both my hunter and my prey
And I your warrior and your lamb.
I've locked eyes with you
And it was inferno and green field--
It was lightnings and rainbows--
It was micro of a second--
It was war of a lifetime.
You are chaos personified
That both started and ended tragedies.
And all in the middle you treasure.
All in the middle you resent.
You're bearing on your fingers
The threads that put all in place.
You glow so that you bore the sun itself.
I can never touch you
For if I do so, discord is unleashed
Like gust of wind bursting out of a small bottle,
Sweeping all to the vast expanse
Of unknown and uncertainties
That eventually led to losing.
This is what they say
That makes you turn away
From all you thought was beautiful--
Believing all that there is was that--
For something even more magnificent
And tasteful and holy and wrong.

Wayfarer, merely I am--
In pursuit of hidden memories
Of the world and the stars.
My feet shall not go weary
Chasing the blinding light
That seems forever peeking
Over the purple mountains--
I take one step forth
And the horizon takes two back.
My hands shall not go weary
Reaching for the hanging fruit
That seems so close to touch
Yet so far to grab with whole hand--
Such is the vicious fate of a wayfarer!

what passion do i have,
what hatred do i keep,
what love do i treasure,
the recipient of all, i know not--
let it be who, let it be what,
let it be for none, i care not;
for they rage inside me,
they lash and scream,
they grow flowers in my trail,
they let burn all i touch,
and it is beautiful.

of gods and monsters we were made;
by summer and tempest we were risen;
of green grass and black mountains we were moulded--
such two-souled beasts men are!

I nurtured an old tree
On an obsidian hill,
Where the moon is in chains
And the leaves in chase of wind.

I killed to soar,
I sinned seeking life,
I grew moth wings for
Whatever death may find
In me that is more
Than what is right.

Oh, the fickleness of truth!
Only does it serve us that we serve it.
Oh, the fickleness of truth!
Only does it maim us that we maim it.