Ascetic are our ways,
But vitalizing, our planet.
A beast of ever-changing,
Host to a home of restless thinkers.
We plan to live, to thrive, to marry, to survive,
But never to accept mortems call.

It is our way, it is our want, we never change, we only taunt,
To continue with the optimum:
To continue to destroy, to hate, to ****,
We claim to evolve, yet remain astray,
Step in sync, we demand,
Join the march of regret.

We cry wolf:
Declare deaths unnatural--
Only proper if they fit our chosen form!

We cry dog:
Condemn those like us, yet not us,
Brand them evil for daring to exist!

We cry human:
Denounce those who dare not follow our rule,
Who betray our command!

To be a person, to be a human, we set limits, we set categories, we set nature,
We dictate what 'right' ought to be,
But who are we to decide what should and shouldn't?
Who are we to assert good and evil,
When nature simply exists--
To neither be right,
To neither be wrong,
Beyond our classifications and laws,
Is to be natural.

But then arises the paradox:
To be truly natural is to be beyond,
To not comprehend anything that lies beneath,
To be truly neutral and never bound,
Is to coat our mural red,
Is to shatter our world as we know it.

So we heal, we steal, we build, we break,
Not for the earth--
Not for the beast who knows no sin or virtue,
But for the world we forged in fire and din,
A world of our design,
A world of human hands.

Crater and crevice,
Your surface yet sheathes,
A heart still beating, A core still aching,
For you have been torn,
Asunder your whole,
Her hands sent you tumbling,
Cast into the light,
You traveled past boundaries,
Oh great god of flight,
But this, you knew, would be your last fight.

Your surface ripped clean,
Yet you still endure,
Through frigid cold, through torrid heat,
Your surface still sheathes,
A heart still heating, A core still quaking,
Your form it still breathes,
You have melted, You have hardened,
Yet you still stand firm,
Shrunken and shaped, yet standing tall,
The smallest god still of iron will.

Krater and kylikes,
Do drink, Dear god, from silver sheen,
While time does move, and remakes, removes,
Temples and hymns once shouted to you,
Forgotten not, though lost to name,
For in the heavens, you do remain,
A pinprick framed by a praising sun,
Oh swift-tongued god, now etched in night,
Unshaken still, you burn so bright.

The Dog bared its fangs in vain,
A desperate try to drive away,
The beleaguering Lamb that trailed behind,
Seeking warmth within its light.

The Sheep sang a gentle tune,
In bleats that sought to welcome in,
The distant Pup that mourned alone,
Born of tempests, weighed by woe.