Babbling

Little

Of elegy and infamy,
And faith in fire forged;
Of tireless night, endless day,
And twilight reaching towards the gods.

These words are my call and creed,
My soul and message, my love and
Shackles.

This song is my spirit, torn from flesh,
The ink of distilled life and essence.

These words are meaningless.

As so many things of me and in me,
As so many things I've become.

This song is silence given breath,
Madness trimmed and oft redacted,
Chaos stripped of elegance.

Of dull discourse and fading life,
Of entire eons lost, and precious moments gained;
Of fire's darkest passion, and light's cruelest mask...
Of time, and its loving presence.



A Rose Which Never Blooms

In the reason of time I wandered, once,
Caught in the beauty of all creatures,
Their birth and death, their passage
Through existance

Yet, as all things age, my form grew still;
I found myself lingering in moments,
And it became difficult to advance...
A second to an hour, a day, a week.

And now I find myself otherwise;
A servant in a kingdom so far removed...
A space between time, trapped in a world
That refuses to change

The beauty of a day that never ends,
Each creature caught in their own life
Statues of flesh, never to age...
Oaken pillars to never fade

I admire these things, their nature,
Outside of the reason of time
Seeing a rose that never blooms,
As eternity fades again...