To romanticize a life
That never was and never has
A life unlived but loved
Lies wrapped in fantasies

Suddenly walking the street
Softly, calmly, a normal speed
Why is it every time I dream,
I get interrupted by the sound

Of an interior not designed
An exterior not built for the light
A romantic life, but never mine.

Life gives and life takes,
Those that mean the most -
Burrowed deep within us,
Dwelling close to our hearts -
Clinging to our souls.

Some unexpected,
Some unforeseen -

For it is those losses,
Those weighted losses...
That hurt the most.

Leaving us with gaping holes,
In our chests -
Body aching...

Leaving us with only memories,
Pieces of them that continue on -
Replaying on loop.
Slight nudges to help us remember -

Remember they existed.
Remember they were real.

Those losses.

Those. Weighted. Losses.

When I’m surrounded by darkness,
And the feeling of finding a single ray of light is my religion

When I’m lonely in my thoughts,
And a feeling of unseen energy lifts me is my religion.

When my eyes brim with tears,
And the feeling of crying in a safe lap is my religion.

And,
When I'm all alone the feeling of a divine presence protecting me is my religion.

SO WHAT'S YOUR RELIGION??

I’m still surprised by what the people in my dreams do to me.
This is all in my head?
I do wonder.
Am I wandering around in a different world when I sleep?
Cause the people in my dream still surprise me.
Does that mean that I do not know my own head?
I think it’s more, I think I’m wandering.
And the people in my dreams are the people that I need.
And sometimes, many times, I don’t even recognize them.
And it’s just a little thing that’s making me feel like I’m at home.
Just a little feeling.
Just a little smell.
Just a little thing they do.
And it’s surprises me when I wake.
Cause I remember.
They did so much to me by doing so little.
It was so real.
They just feel real and they feel like I belong there.
They feel like I’m home.

Old crippled man, charcoal burnt and ashen,
a thousand days debauchery molded you in this fashion.
Haggard and stiff, you can barely walk across the stage--
no one ever thought that you would make it to this age.
Your girth has expanded (although it’s covered well),
but still your piercing voice summons demons up from hell.
Not as strong as it was once, but eerie just the same,
calling those who’ve followed you, who now chant your name,
to assemble in our legions, gathered in this shrine,
where we repeat the catechism, in throbbing metered rhymes.

Are you a madman? Or just a troubadour
who lends melodic shimmer to verses dark and dour.
Whose singing slides and skims along the edge of sanity,
but who never surrendered to the true evil of vanity.
Recovered from drunken, dissolute despair,
to call the faithful masses back, never mind the wear and tear--
to plod the journey of your craft, to sing before the crowd
whose loyalty, to your band, forever is avowed.