The monsoon moon hung close between,
Bog's abode now and his abode to be.
As all anchor's were lost in the waves,
he asked me to dig both our graves.
I told him of the signs that be,
'the signs don't care for you and me'
he said as he took me by my mind,
'symbols are ruthless, unkind!
the symbols speak of the amusement park,
and the roller coasters with caretakers dark,
and a little baby that was put upon,
that fateful ride, shall soon be gone.
The failing serpent has all venom lost,
you think you have won, but with a cost.
The serpent was to give you force,
now you sit, with knowledge coarse,
of all that the serpent can choose to do,
but you chased it away, your serpent, has left you.
But I will you, a new serpent build,
fresh from the furnace, by the light man's guild,
It needn't be strong, it needn't be sure,
but it will be an honest serpent,
that is the cure!
This blind serpent, it will help you see,
beyond this vibration you choose to be,
The symbols then would be of use,
now, till then, they will confuse,
So leave the signs alone for now,
let's build you a serpent, with the temperament of a cow.'

Weave a dimension, spun with words,
with sound in time and lights in herds.
watch the hawk enveloping,
with shadows a squirrel that strides.
And as the plot is developing,
the squirrel scurries away and hides.

"Order destroys the beauty of creation"
Beauty? as opposed to what?
"******, revenge and law, of course."
The Synchronized dancers please your mind
and eventually,bind
your thoughts to protect.
Jack, still in the box.
Hedonism hurts, don't you know?
Mr. Kundera told me so.
Where will your hunt for comfort end?
It'll burn, or be buried, or be fed
to the vultures, that swarm above,
waiting for humanity, to share their love.

Yet, for comfort, I thrive.

Run in circles and play the game,
run, run around the flame.
Look above at him, the guide.
Alas, he's here too, running beside.
If you break this cycle,
all order shall end.
The world will chain you
for the rules you bend.

But there is hope,
beyond land and sea.
Beyond the women singing with glee,
beyond the lovers caught in embrace,
beyond the holy men praying with grace.
There is hope in the ancient lands,
in the green forests
and the untouched sands.
Spit out the apple,
be born again,
into the womb of silence.
And stay.

It was here, just the other day,
right before I was asked, to throw it away.
It had lingered and combined,
with these memories of mine,
subtle metamorphosis, per se?

I watched it bloom and it did grow,
roots! leaves! a bud! but you wouldn't know!
I imagined the flower it could be,
a flower which had been nurtured by me!
A new addition to that garden of mine,
in which were growing wild flowers divine.

beautiful little things, I fed them everyday,
they grew, they flourished, they withered away.
but you aren't much of a gardener you said,
'So what, if it was here? I'm leaving now, so shouldn't it be dead?'

It was here? was it not?
it seems to have been a passing thought.
In this labyrinth is locked away,
a voice taught to answer when I pray,
and ask 'if it ever existed, was it ever here?'
To silently whisper 'C'etait ici, monsieur.'