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All Beliefs are Welcome Here!

There is, in truth, a Death to youth,
And Time will take his rightful duty,
Not with lines as tangible proof,
Or curse of fading beauty.


But through the living all been done,
In passing we must pay the toll,
Of battles lost and secrets won,
And lightness we have stole.


But hearts are mortal, Love is mortal,
All things die and live again,
And Time may grin, and Reaper chortle,
And press the weight of all that's been.


But Flight of black wings beating wild,
And crossed knives, forked tongues, seek.
And fears of Life and Death beguile,
With things that dare not speak.


Singing high and flying low,
A plaster smile to hide the blow,
And wrong wings bleed to steal the winds,
Frozen when the truer fire rescinds
It's passion. For the Power of Mortality.


Turning into newer creatures,
Unknown to ourselves at last,
Displaying harder, colder features,
Built of colder harder past.


Stinging back, in back of you,
And following behind the sun.
To try to catch and tame the dew
Of love's sour honey won.


Again, again, the knife withdraws,
To rest in the softer flesh it mauls,
To sing of pain and newness.
And to sing of love's one mortal flaw.


And wherefore now, when the gods have left,
And the circle's closing in dragon's breath,
The light is ebbing in the windows of your soul,
And the room is empty and the church bells toll.


A peal of laughter of a God who never loved you,
A reminder of the bitterness that pushed inside,
And standing tall, strong backed and all,
The ones who said they loved you lied.


The ghost of a whisper's shadow,
The echo of a lover's tears,
The rift of pain, of loss and gain,
And the curse of age beyond your years.


Thought and feeling rent asunder,
Thought, assurance. Never wonder.
Feeling, doubt itself is doubted,
Washing over, thought is clouded.


An epic, this, a continuous saga,
Of action, reaction, guilt and blame,
And who is the Killer, and who the Saint,
For whom the sympathy? The shame?


The wounds will tell, if scars can heal,
And youth can die away,
If Love can lie, and Death can steal,
If man can be returned to clay.


There is, in truth, a death to youth,
And Time will take his rightful toll,
Of battles lost, and secrets won,
And lightness we have stole.

Views: 54

Comment by Naoko on January 30, 2011 at 10:47pm
this is a really intricate piece. i had to read it a few times to see all the little patterns.


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