Remember that I don't really exist...
The musician, stripped of music and rhyme,
Once she stood by her fleeting harmonies,
She lay raped and beaten, consumed in the passion of her world,
Her life was lived through her song, a song sung now at her end.
This is the world we live.
The poet, lost for words and dying for food,
Once he stood by no more than his beliefs,
He lay prostrate and pleading, forsaken by a world which holds his means false.
His life was lived by his pen’s blood, blood which flows now abused.
This is the world we live.
Who then is to stand?
Who then is the right now to fall?
Are we, then, the soldiers of a child’s war, or perhaps the men of tin pursuing Baal?
What then grows when the gardeners have died?
Or is this the world we made?
The artist, fleetingly between opiate dreams lives.
Once she stood to paint the world in the colours of life,
She lay forgotten, her art now to waste in a world without love.
Her life, once full, is now but the solemn whim between fixes.
This is the world we live.
The singer, silenced by censored words,
Once he stood by noble words of a message pure,
He lay dying without breath, robbed by a world where beauty is without rhyme.
His songs now carry neither meaning nor melody, replaced by a world’s crime.
This is the world we live.
Who then is to stand?
Who then is the right now to fall?
We are, then mere pawns in an eternal game, free in neither thought nor word.
How are we to grow when the seeds cannot be sown?
This is the world we live.
Dying by a word,
Sworn to secrecy
Unto tomorrow we march,
Into yesterday we fall.
Neither art nor words to the maker now belong.
For one and for all, to our world we go.
This is the life we live.
What is to grow when the gardener is slain,
What seeds are sown when no fruit is born,
By whose hands, then, are we left to sprout,
When our live mean less than some child’s game?
This is the world we live,
Built on breaking dreams,
On sacrificial lambs,
And on dreadful schemes.
The world we built,
The one we left for someone else’s hands,
This is the world we live,
As we all refuse to stand.
----------------------------
There upon a joyous hour,
By many shadows flew,
In soft and weary lies,
Did descend an angel,
From dark and smoky skies.
By black wings dyed sanguine,
Did drift the killing specter,
Into merry ears, it spoke
Words of sorrow,
Whispers of death
There through the people,
Was its message quick to spread,
Where once was merriment,
Turns now to reverence,
By a dark angel’s eyes.
By black wings dyed sanguine,
Did drift this dark-soul’d angel,
And through the town it rose,
Wells of tears,
Colors of the funeral
There upon the witching hour,
When all were lain to slumber,
Were dark words made true.
There rose a sad cry,
Lifted to heavens beyond,
By black wings dyed sanguine,
Was the town then slain,
The earth stained.
Colors of blood,
Colors of death.
There where life was merry,
Lies naught but silence,
A town forgotten,
Lost within the night.
Consumed by a black-soul’d angel
By black wings dyed sanguine,
Shall he forever wander,
Through lands now left grey
Forgotten lands,
Forsaken lands.
There upon a cursed hour,
When old soil is turned new,
Shall he once more descend,
And to a new world’s life,
Shall he once more bring an end.
By black wings dyed sanguine,
Will he always fly,
To bring to new lives,
A dark word,
A final silence.
... and maybe it won't hurt to say goodbye.
