Frown, for misfortune smiles.
Drowning a man in sorrow,
Laying out the path of a thousand stone strewn miles.
Each moment an agony,
for a mistress that defiles.
defiles your hope!
raping your dignity!
showing you the scope,
of years upon years, of nought, but tragedy.
Mans will is a tawdry thing,
speckled black from pawn to king.
Caving to each situationhis life ordains to bring.
On bent knee and begging,
before ever looking for a remedy.
Faltering from grace,
fates mocking face revealed,
blotting out the the tune of every song he is to sing.
I am no whore for nordic myth.
No Norn to strike me,
through writ,
nor wrath.
I will never be bound by some sycophantic and sympathetic theory,
three fold law?
It's beneath me!
So endulge me, for a moment...
I am my own!
Proud, strong, and wicked in this world of meek.
I take what I earn,
Or for that which I yearn...
without even the offer of giving.
And no moment, no matter how bleak,
will it ever take me from my feet.
And never will I be weak before its malevolence,
No defeat before me,
nor any hint of pennance revealed in my eyes.
In the face of a conjuring that would entreat my demise...
I will stand, always smug and smiling,
and never ever in surprise.
Always mockingly,
I will strike back,
and above it, will I arise.
I have seen through time and times lies,
I have realized truth,
where truth would hide behind an age old disguise.
Is it impossible to surmise that fate is an energy?
that karma and its due can be reformed and shaped?
That its own amphoric memory can be cultured and harnessed,
draped over your own shoulder, and worn like some armor, or cape...
to cope with the the rape it would commit unto you.
Drowning a man in sorrow,
Laying out the path of a thousand stone strewn miles.
Each moment an agony,
for a mistress that defiles.
defiles your hope!
raping your dignity!
showing you the scope,
of years upon years, of nought, but tragedy.
Mans will is a tawdry thing,
speckled black from pawn to king.
Caving to each situationhis life ordains to bring.
On bent knee and begging,
before ever looking for a remedy.
Faltering from grace,
fates mocking face revealed,
blotting out the the tune of every song he is to sing.
I am no whore for nordic myth.
No Norn to strike me,
through writ,
nor wrath.
I will never be bound by some sycophantic and sympathetic theory,
three fold law?
It's beneath me!
So endulge me, for a moment...
I am my own!
Proud, strong, and wicked in this world of meek.
I take what I earn,
Or for that which I yearn...
without even the offer of giving.
And no moment, no matter how bleak,
will it ever take me from my feet.
And never will I be weak before its malevolence,
No defeat before me,
nor any hint of pennance revealed in my eyes.
In the face of a conjuring that would entreat my demise...
I will stand, always smug and smiling,
and never ever in surprise.
Always mockingly,
I will strike back,
and above it, will I arise.
I have seen through time and times lies,
I have realized truth,
where truth would hide behind an age old disguise.
Is it impossible to surmise that fate is an energy?
that karma and its due can be reformed and shaped?
That its own amphoric memory can be cultured and harnessed,
draped over your own shoulder, and worn like some armor, or cape...
to cope with the the rape it would commit unto you.
