What a pity to be so undone
The greatest of tragedies to be unsung.
With each step weighing the weight of ten suns.
Finally I got the message; I’m done.

I felt it leave that night,
The deep whisper inside the blight.
A tyrant voice with a song of reason.
hardy, bruised, and fiercely seasoned.

It left in the icy winter wind,
taking the last good thing a good man defends.
The last good thing that makes a man,
now a hollowed creature with an act to pretend.

"Your fate was made from the start," he spoke in a riddle.
Each word is alone and disorganized, as an undone puzzle.
And the knife in his hand, to the right, and the purpose it had,
loosely held by a man who had recently gone mad.

"From the start?" the victim could only reply,
with his only thought the contemplation of how he will die.
Fear had conquered him; bought him, and held him.
But that was not his final mad mistake; the man was already dim.

"Everything is for a single reason," the assailant fit the knife where it has always been.
"Fate is neither ***** nor is it clean."
"It is neither late nor is it early."
"This the one truth we know truly."

"Time is inevitable; it makes slaves of us all."
"Your death is undeniable. Rebellion serves nothing but to stall."
The knife felt like a sheet of ice over his old his heart,
and the last thing he whispered before he died, "From the start?"

Understanding sometimes seem like a natural destiny.
It seems something we are born of or born from, and shrouded in mystery.

Where the truth is rarely clear and the lies are deafeningly loud,
and all life is met at the crossroad, where they are bent or bowed.
There, a World Maker decides; a new world to be born.
And reality is stretched in two and, of course, torn.
One pulled to the left and the other dragged to the right.
But in you, a sure fear yours was made of untested blight.
And understanding?
Well, that's gone. Gone as suddenly as it was a kind of thing.

Love is maddening.
What we know of it is pitiful and saddening.
But a decision must be made.
So, again, I'll test my fate.

American whispers are clouding your mind,
denying you of that time when you were kind.
Now their voices are rising nothing but war
against the desperate and the desperately poor.

But even then, underneath the soaring wings of pessimism,
A new humanity is born right through the cataclysm.
It cleanses the old that is slowly and surely dying,
and shuts the ears to American whispers with their lying.

I raise the sun in the morning,
and the moon in the night.
I sing the stars into being,
and chase the darkness out of sight.

I blow the wind that moves the worlds,
and forge the rains that falls ahead.
I do this all, alone and scared
that you won't know me until I'm dead.