It is blindness by consent
Not knowing where we were going
Not caring where we went
Just tearing up the world
As we play follow the leaders

See the candle's wick endure the flame, much like the shoulders that bare the strain.

Lost in a darkness we never sought, learned to wage a war we never fought.

Consciousness locked inside our fleeting dreams, held deeply within ancient genetic streams.

Continued life is water over flowing, hoping to find a path of deeper knowing.

The lip does bleed while on the hook, late is the bait for which we didn't look.

When poets die
It's sad and true,
It matters not
What their bodies do,
The spirit flies
To Poet's Corner,
In Westminster Abbey.
You'll not see
Busts or inscriptions
For all the poets
Whose spirits linger
Alongside Chaucer, Browning, Spencer,
And a myriad of authors.
Dead Poet you have earned your share;
Dead Poet I will know you're there,
Composing in the Laureate's lair.

(A Pharaoh Speaks.)

I said, "Why should a pyramid
Stand always dully on its base?
I'll change it! Let the top be hid,
The bottom take the apex-place!"
And as I bade they did.

The people flocked in, scores on scores,
To see it balance on its tip.
They praised me with the praise that bores,
My godlike mind on every lip.
-- Until it fell, of course.

And then they took my body out
From my crushed palace, mad with rage,
-- Well, half the town WAS wrecked, no doubt --
Their crazy anger to assuage
By dragging it about.

The end? Foul birds defile my skull.
The new king's praises fill the land.
He clings to precept, simple, dull;
HIS pyramids on bases stand.
But -- Lord, how usual!

Does it matter that I exist?
Somewhere beyond hope,
Where the air hangs thin.

Does it matter? When I hide myself
behind a mask
and that mask
inside a box
and that box in a shadow
too dark to be found,
Or noticed?

Does it matter that I wait
a torn canvas in the rain?
Waiting for the brush to hit home and hit hard.
So numb I forget to feel the pain.

Does it matter? When the wounds have healed and you’ve moved on.
But the scars remain.
Name forgotten,
I don’t have to pretend.
The cracked eyes and whisky smile hide who I am.