We stand out in the cold for the fog of life to paint our silver breath on the thickened air, we cock our heads to watch it drift away, vanish really, to assure us that we’re living.
We clasp our beating wrist with our fingers to hear life’s deep thrum holding rhythm, while the things of art and sky whirl and our hearts complete what our tongues cannot speak.
We make no murmur as we enter into nightfall and have no pang as the birds return the sun, this is the world and we sway with her. O! Lean down with your tears of morning for our delight
And when the lords of death thrust their blades, hold us near, and steady our lance that they might feel our resistance in the red corridors of dream! Keep the lords of death at bay until our child is ready!
We stand out in the cold for the fog of life to paint our silver breath on thickened air, we cock our heads to watch it drift away, vanish really, to assure us of our living.
We are tired of these charlatans of supervision with their slabbing talk of doom-saying rubbish, toddling of this world and meandering through, stinking up the halls of power with fraud!
We scour our bodies for unfamiliar things to stay ahead of the drum, to glimpse more time in the drift, the granted breath, the banishment of the fading conclusion.
We imagine our lives must be most prized, even to the lords of death, who spend their time madly honing the edge of their chosen blade, the clock ticks their name, but still they whet,
they file the blade to turn upon themselves with, I suppose, an absurd glint of approval, while the things of art and sky whirl and their death completes what devious tongues could not.
And when these lords of death thrust their blades hold us near, and steady our lance that they might feel our resistance in the red corridors of dream! Keep the lords of death at bay until our child is ready!
We clasp our beating wrist with our fingers to hear life’s deep thrum holding rhythm, while the things of art and sky whirl and our hearts complete what our tongues cannot speak.
We make no murmur as we enter into nightfall and have no pang as the birds return the sun, this is the world and we sway with her. O! Lean down with your tears of morning for our delight
And when the lords of death thrust their blades, hold us near, and steady our lance that they might feel our resistance in the red corridors of dream! Keep the lords of death at bay until our child is ready!
We stand out in the cold for the fog of life to paint our silver breath on thickened air, we cock our heads to watch it drift away, vanish really, to assure us of our living.
We are tired of these charlatans of supervision with their slabbing talk of doom-saying rubbish, toddling of this world and meandering through, stinking up the halls of power with fraud!
We scour our bodies for unfamiliar things to stay ahead of the drum, to glimpse more time in the drift, the granted breath, the banishment of the fading conclusion.
We imagine our lives must be most prized, even to the lords of death, who spend their time madly honing the edge of their chosen blade, the clock ticks their name, but still they whet,
they file the blade to turn upon themselves with, I suppose, an absurd glint of approval, while the things of art and sky whirl and their death completes what devious tongues could not.
And when these lords of death thrust their blades hold us near, and steady our lance that they might feel our resistance in the red corridors of dream! Keep the lords of death at bay until our child is ready!
© 2009 by mark prime
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