There's no formula.
Why would there be a formula,
Why muddle it up with signs and
Figures and giving and taking
When words do enough to draw a
Coroner's bag over it?
All you can know is the beautiful
Tightening of the Devil's hand on your soul,
Which he has now turned into a stress ball
With a witty or motivational saying on it.
Some are smiley faces,
But he crushes them all the same.
Too bad Libra isn't there to balance you out,
Sort out the Good and the Evil,
Your God and your Devil.
Because really, we ride on a line
Some would call razor sharp.
The most difficult task throughout our lives
Is, undeniably, the act of balancing.
Imagine this:
We are all the King's Fools,
We sit in the King's castle
In the Grand Hall
With wooden tables
And beautiful banners to represent
Who discovered and exploited
And conquered a certain piece of land,
And a certain part of the population,
And a certain percentage of humanity.
And these banners are red and gold,
Red for Passion,
Gold for Obsession.
And the walls are stoned,
Breaking themselves apart
Like hourglass's employed grains of sand.
We all balance in this hall
On ridiculously tall unicycles,
So tall that the fruit and assorted
Desserts we are balancing on our clown's
Top hats on our sweating heads
Brush against the lion's tail on the first banner,
The boar's tusks on the second,
And sometimes the rose's bowing stem.
We do this all our lives
While the nobility,
Or the cosmos,
Or God and the Devil,
Or Good and Evil,
Sit and watch, laughing and throwing themselves at us
For us to catch and juggle whenever they please.