We will go in circles,
Die the same old way.
There is no shame in that,
We will do it better
more style, elegance,
A little more defiance each time
And we will burn out
and die quietly in the end,-
the ultimate obedience
as the audience dictates

But a little more each time.

It all starts with an Idea,
an idea like a distant thunderstorm
like cold rain on your skin
and then, let it seep in
and run wild through your blood
like a venereal disease
and let it enter your brain
and let it grow in the darkness like moss.

And there you will find a Dream,
absurd and absolute,
a dream impossible to chase,
and so keep quiet.
Let it grow inside you
like a little parasite
until it is all there is.

And then, let go.

It all starts with an Idea,
an idea like a distant thunderstorm
like cold rain on your skin
and then, let it seep in
and run wild through your blood
like a venereal disease
and let it enter into your brain
and let it grow in the darkness like moss.

And there you will find a Dream,
absurd and absolute,
a dream impossible to chase,
and so keep quiet.
Let it grow inside you
like a little parasite
until it is all that there is.

And then, let go.

A bolt of lightning
in the distance
lights up the cloudy night
with the memory
of ancient fires,
and the scarlet memories
of ancient agony
dim and fade
suddenly awake.

The lightning,
a giant crack
in the floodgate
that holds back time.
And time,
like a loose gown
slips off her body
and the memories of
her savage beauty ignite
the ancient pine,
leaving behind charred wood
dark like the scars
on her wrinkled skin
and the imaginary warmth
melts into the night.


And she cries out
in craving memory
of the withered giants
who in times
long before civilization
stood amidst the molten rocks
and tamed her fire down
with their strength
and their flutes.
And her cry
shatters the lullabies
and runs through the night
like a beast in searing pain.
And the wind runs wild
through the woods
like the hands
that once stroked her hair
and a sudden serenity
wraps her aged soul.