It isn't paranoia
but the fear that has been following
Waiting for my word and for my pen
premonitions of the sword
that which men may have sheathed
though their waists still not unscathed
The lack of rhythm in each year
however steep the run can be
November always seems
to be the downbeat
It does not care whether we've moved on
or whether we cared at all
Still it holds you to that point
and it dares you to speak
inversed by the genie
of the very next morning
I did not mean, and did not wish
to find the pulse within my own
living, breathing, grieve-ish
body in disguise of a person,
in disguise of a tomb
I regress while you digress
and it can only be unfair
that I am worn, but I'm extended
apprehended by the likes of vacancy
and vacancy alone
I tell the tale to the dirt itself
the rubble I intend
to sink within and sink without
a means to any end
no mighty sword to **** the pen
where the pen has left my hand
where Divinity's demands
demand for more
than the sword
and the pen
who cannot bargain for his own
and cannot bargain with no hand
I will not pick it up
for I refuse to understand
the purpose of a Lord
and the meaning of command
where I am to live
in place of those who wish to
and I am to speak
to ground in those who can't
and the rhythm is lost
and the gateway is clear
that something new was meant for me here
&from nothing, I'm now bound to believe:
without the pen, the hand is clean