So the easiness of tradition
Picks out the ones
They want to run out on
And get to have some fun

Mr. T.S. Eliot said it
That to get it
Is simply
To be apart of it

Drenched by the rain
Of the forefathers and
Future one's
Being one step ahead
Of no one & everyone

Seeing that to be the first
Is to be the last

Much like the one's
Recalled
Only to have the truth
Twisted
Like Richard the III's knife or
Or like poor Ophelia's young mind

Now when I say that I don't see it
Doesn't mean that I don't feel it
I just know there have been many here before
And I don't want to take up their time to be a bore

Sometimes there are some things
They weren't able to do
And there sure as hell are some things
We do they'd see as downright crude

But who's in the grave
And who's up above?

Who only has one way to behave
And who can still watch the doves?

Their work
Is unable to
Stop inspiring

Burning in pages
And
Pages of time splintered
Wisdom

Where I
Can only flip
And slip
Into what they were
Searching for

And the strength
To get up and take
Another shot

Is making me question
What it is really there
And what is not

The turning jade
Lime green in this
South American sun

Makes me shake
The dust from my boot
And reach over for the ***

I hear those lapping waves
Like the angels dancing above

She sang like she'd already died once
A spell of sorrow ancient & tough

These traditions
These labeling of "truths"
These histories written from hands
Who all seemed as if they were guessing

Written by the victor
Forgotten is to be the loser
Observed by all who be neutral

If you start to
See the sunrise

Open your eyes

There are truths there
Worth more

Then any history book
Or
Prayer