If one were to listen close, one might hear the swell
Their ear pressed to the chest, one might feel reverberations
The dear familiar toll we’ve come to know so well,
Under failing, fading lights cataracts find revelations
Omens in the preferred nature and what all do they spell?

Prolific waxing philosophies of psychology that explains naught, but to amuse
Talking heads with their chattering teeth, prophetic insight into self-abuse
Answer to them, clear this cloudy gaze, make yourself of use
Inquiring minds rejected, romanticized, dance for us our muse
No flights of fancy in the aces, no cards up the sleeve,
Preservation, this bowed scarecrow, is enough to make-believe

Coherence or vagueness, a trust one must choose
Can they know your darkness; what are you prepared to lose?

Empty the hearth, its embers and ashes for the sorrow there, cold and pale
The devil knows love is not pride, see him stride
Listen for the faintest sting of light, ringing like a bell
If one were to listen close, what one might hear, one can never tell

Prophetic, truly one may weep over what they sow
Pride is not love, nor do acts of sunshine console the shadow
Pathetic, what crops can pestilence hope to grow?
Why does death steal time, and where does killed time go?
How is one seditious, sadistic, sardonic, self-sedated and still switched so none seem to know?