May he submit his truest fear?
The kind that withers into one's spine
For all his ventures, and all his colour
There is one thing he could not find

Would you guess, and play this game of man?
Trivialize him into a fact, or a song!
Fruitless, you will be, unlike his mind
He could not bear your answer for long

You see: he flies and he is well
He sees: only flies and bothersome dreams
You see: his ventures as a lonely dust
He sees: his truth, which is not as it seems

Truth, the obsolete, the sordid word
For it claims to deny anything but
You hang on to it, to define the worlds
That he wrote himself, like the galaxy's mutt

So you scream, and you *****, for the words that he sold
To portray him well, out of lust or pity
"The Caricature of the New Age Think"
The medium is lost, for a name in the city

So they'll point their fingers, at the primary antagonist
Of itself, the life it chose out of need
For what is one's purpose in some long-gone galaxy
When it writes for humans, when it needs to feed?

IT is longing, and IT is impossible
But tangible enough, to know of it's shame
That it was not born where and how it desired
So it manifests into me, and I am duly blamed

"I am restrained, and that's of no concern"
I will sell that line to give it sense
For friends smile bright and they mean well enough
Even if I must live with petty pretence

Is that truth? Well surely it is
You read it well, and I suffered to write
If it is art, and you are captivated
Then this is my closest to a star, and this is my blight

So, do you know my truest fear?
The dying of the word
The contradiction of truth
The self-denial of who I must be
The forgetting of my adventures
The extinction of my art
All to myself, only myself