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[I. The Shimmering Tides of Revelation]

[Instrumental]

[II. Into The Void]

Today I seek to procreate, exonerate the sickly skins.
My former selves, they drift away into the ether.

I enter darkened waters.
I lose my body beneath the waves, seeing visions of what could’ve been.

It’s so strange…
I see my body floating before me,
a strange and empty vessel, tied down but weightless.

The tides take me away.

And just as it does,
must the Sun rise in bitterness and mourning of what came before;
Luna’s lament still dawning in spite of His song.
O’, weary yet strong must the Father’s Sun carry on with his torment
like a lamb to the slaughter.
And for what?

O’, God!

Pray, let me be free!

Pray, let me be free!

Pray, by the circle complete!

Pray, let me be free!

Once, I thought I’d found love,
hook and tethered to the Siren’s Song.
Even though you were near, I was empty.
It must have been so pain’d to see.

O’, how I injured my love
singing westward songs unto the setting sun.
Might my suffering be song, if nothing else.

Everything shifts into focus
Pummelled by sensory input overload;
This taste of clarity beckons me to repeat this experience.

Burn my eyes with the brightest of lights
As the senses adapt to the otherworldly state of mind.
In the sleep deprived, unconscious mind, I search for answers.

I toe the line between the innocent and the guilty.
I tread the space not met between the light or the dark.
This path of the everyman.

I am society's backbone in times of need;
And times of caution, and times of hunger
For something more than fortune and fame: I seek enlightenment.
I denounce myself.

All is not well in this conjugal state of stalemate interdependence
Fragile mirror-image hanging on a knife-edge; a microcosmic indecency.
A new kind of metafiction, to recreate the bigger picture
Given the kiss of death before it had its chance to breathe

And breathe it shall.

I bear witness to the monolith of self-evident cowardice,

When you said you were lost
I couldn't help but feel
Like I had to find you
And rescue you
From the shadows that took you,
Lest you be consumed.
I don't need to be found,
These shadows are my blanket.

[Part 1. The Exile]

She said to me,
"Let me put a spark in your smile, and paint whispers upon your lips,

Paint sweet whispers of who we might yet be."

It grows so stilted, this rift of seperation.
It lies through its teeth, the 6th degree of prophecy.
And all along, this felt so pure, just tell me what went wrong?
Why did we cease to nourish life, leaving only barren wastes?

An outdated paradigm exists in the rift between change and stagnation.
Plaguing my dreams with apocalyptic signs of the necrotic ones stalking me

If this is all there is; and compassion's but fleeting in a sea of mediocrity,
We'll tread water in futility. We're all nought but fucking ragdolls to gaia.

Why has it become so acceptable to display a consummate aggression
Spat in the eye of progress; all in the aid of an existence as leeches?
They become more anesthetized by the hour, succumbing to a spiritual sterility.
Compelling those with beating hearts to sew their eyes shut with but a second thought.

Why won’t you raze, with me, the Mountains of Man?
O’, my love, if only you could see the state of our impiety.

It bubbles through the impotence of our rage and of our love.
As we make mockeries of union our deviance is consummated.
O’, it should be plain to see how we raise our petty banners in defiance
of the purity that lies within.

Though the question remains present...
Cast in the cold light of day, what is "home" but a place to lay one's head?

Does the Pilgrim's way see bliss in a stagnant glimpse
or is there something to be said for the comfort of the nest?

Because it doesn't seem so clear to me anymore...

“So, here we find ourselves again,
and one might think it such a pity to be standing on the razor’s edge.
O’, how Occam would be ashamed.”

Or so the dreams appear to say.
They tell of numb and wretched men who’ve strayed far from the path,
they tell of nameless, faceless men whose every detail shrouds
itself in myth and with poeticism, with insight and with tragic glee.

There is a weight upon me, still;
the quivering stench of the incomplete,
looming, terrible.

I can barely breathe…
This isn’t what I thought this would be…

Toil with me, if you will.

There is a hollowness: shape without form.
Hallowed and concentric circles splayed against a canvas
Deep red, veins in hand with epitomes and documents of what has ceased to be.
What was leased to me…?
A dying light in fragile arms?
An art amidst your victory march for me to chase; for me to run?
For me to torment you and I until we fall again;
Amidst a calm and cooling breeze,