Whatever stone untangles a fickle web
Is unknown to me and my kind
Sunken to the depths of a granite basin
Our history of history lays buried
Underneath millions of layers
Nestled in the bosom of before and after
Smothered by the echo of here and now
I borrowed my view from a backwards march
Yet we ride, us, my brothers, brother
We ride side by side in different directions
A quantum's breathe from self realisation
Headless apocalyptic cryptic horsemen
Hell bound for some other answer or another
Ingesting a meek and mild alternative migration
In some other moment other than yesterdays prism
I get a sense of relative subjective =ism
From this moment to the next, sometimes I slip in-between
Being here and then, and then, and then...
The headlights blind my idealised sense of when
The wrong sends a shiver that takes me away and away
Everything vibrates at the speed of life then stops.
"Let's get it over with" said the lake to the swan
"Your fanciful spectacle is a mere distraction"
Macrocosmically endorsed imperfection
Swallows microcosmically dismissed perfection
The carpet is plump with all that is swept beneath it
Unladen your brooms and sift through the dirt
Nuggets of truth lay glimmering in the river of lies
The butcher sharpens a knife ready for the next kill
Fear does not deter the masses from there huddle
Somewhere in this bustling crowd I look around
Closed open eyes stare each other blameless
This should not be the case and no existential aloofness
can avoid the vile reflection of that which we criticise
and of that which fuels the fire beneath our quills
A black kettle boils a special brew my love, my muse
And we will sip a plenty with grotesque arrogance
Ripe and plump in our blissful evaluations
Scorning the ignorant and damning the fools
Full of prideful scorn for the blind leading the blind
Yet do help them navigate the terrain we half imagine
Wielding only our contempt in leather bound pre-nuptial sacks
A golden goose drops an egg before all the kings men
Yet they cannot put back together what they have broken
Upon the wall metaphor’s lullaby hums a guessing rhyme
Of which no answers can be found amongst the yolk and shell
Of all that is most true hides a deeper, soundless sound
A voice which is silent yet a voice spoken for all
Whispering a muttering “without out them, who are you?”
Is unknown to me and my kind
Sunken to the depths of a granite basin
Our history of history lays buried
Underneath millions of layers
Nestled in the bosom of before and after
Smothered by the echo of here and now
I borrowed my view from a backwards march
Yet we ride, us, my brothers, brother
We ride side by side in different directions
A quantum's breathe from self realisation
Headless apocalyptic cryptic horsemen
Hell bound for some other answer or another
Ingesting a meek and mild alternative migration
In some other moment other than yesterdays prism
I get a sense of relative subjective =ism
From this moment to the next, sometimes I slip in-between
Being here and then, and then, and then...
The headlights blind my idealised sense of when
The wrong sends a shiver that takes me away and away
Everything vibrates at the speed of life then stops.
"Let's get it over with" said the lake to the swan
"Your fanciful spectacle is a mere distraction"
Macrocosmically endorsed imperfection
Swallows microcosmically dismissed perfection
The carpet is plump with all that is swept beneath it
Unladen your brooms and sift through the dirt
Nuggets of truth lay glimmering in the river of lies
The butcher sharpens a knife ready for the next kill
Fear does not deter the masses from there huddle
Somewhere in this bustling crowd I look around
Closed open eyes stare each other blameless
This should not be the case and no existential aloofness
can avoid the vile reflection of that which we criticise
and of that which fuels the fire beneath our quills
A black kettle boils a special brew my love, my muse
And we will sip a plenty with grotesque arrogance
Ripe and plump in our blissful evaluations
Scorning the ignorant and damning the fools
Full of prideful scorn for the blind leading the blind
Yet do help them navigate the terrain we half imagine
Wielding only our contempt in leather bound pre-nuptial sacks
A golden goose drops an egg before all the kings men
Yet they cannot put back together what they have broken
Upon the wall metaphor’s lullaby hums a guessing rhyme
Of which no answers can be found amongst the yolk and shell
Of all that is most true hides a deeper, soundless sound
A voice which is silent yet a voice spoken for all
Whispering a muttering “without out them, who are you?”
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