MySelf to pieces split and cleaved,
o'er the grave he stood bereaved.
When salvation seemed so close at hand,
he saw confusion in the plan;
Two halves of One he must retrieve.

The Seven Lights he sought to find,
suspended east-ward in the sky.
When once or twice he, free of fear
spied his heart out chasing deer;
he knelt - trembling before the lie.

Breathing slowed - the flowing saddle
in which he rode, abreast Death's rattle.
The numbers upward, did he climb
from six to seven, eight to nine;
symbols of a timeless battle.

In purgatory now I wait
for Flame of Hell or Heaven's Gate.
Strange personalities within vibrations,
a Cosmic Gong to heal Death's Station;
I stand my ground - I forge my fate.

Wherefore art thou Chariot I ride,
that which I've been given, hidden by the sky?
A Sphere of Mirrors w/ no sides,
into my tear of fire doth collide;
A temperamental Horse I ride.