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A Forest Of Stars
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Virtus Sola Invicta
Some of my favourite messiahs are dead.
You may perhaps be nervous that the endings are wearing thin.
So much grist for so many mills.
So little point in taking offence.
I've rolled with all the punches, and not even come up drunk.
Danced around the guiding lights, got perhaps a little lost in the dazzle of lamps.
Riding the head wind through Shangri-la, ha!
Aghast in Agharta, a shambolic frolic in Shamballah.
Careless questions clogging the five-pointed sink-holes you dance around.
Listless Heathen.
Whirled down drains world-weary.
The accused are great in number, though if you'd kind enough to line them up, I could find it in me to fire the shots.
Temples holed by misplaced homily.
Nails all lined up to support heads lording over spikes of infamy.
Your alter-ego can dig the pit.
The, once it's lined with silent bones, we can stir the ghosts around.
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Perhaps take their powder as salve.
Though it'll perish your thoughts, I'll tell you.
Curiosity pushed you in, face first on top of all the others.
So let's roll the old worm ball down another cerebral hill,
Bone over wire racing the funeral pyre.
All wild eyed, world weary.
Twisted trees tearing the heart out of Eden.
Final resting places soiled as if on queue by those dragging their mean feet, enduring the wait before you.
Lightning breaks against the cortex.
Rolled into the hole to taste the old face down.
A twelve foot round-trip to your discredit.
Careless questions clogging the five-pointed sink-holes you dance around.
Listless Heathen.
Whirled down drains world-weary.
Down drains world-weary.
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