Changed I am and changed I'll be,
The constant drone of travesty.
The telling tales of cauldrons three,
The best of us, the best of me
Is lost in time's wicked embrace,
Is kept in memory's leathern case.
Is tucked away from morning sun
Is left with things now left undone.
For once I stood in open places.
Longed to bask in sunlit spaces.
This world it seems, cared not to taste it,
Crushed it, burned it, beat and chased it.
Left it here a broken tome,
A well lit room without a home,
A silent, gazing, epitaph,
A parody at which they laugh.
But I will walk this broken road.
This endless, tragic, richest lode
Where silently beneath the soil
Awaiting sweat and endless toil
Somewhere a gem is waiting there.
Is sitting, silent, quiet there.
Is longing for my hands to touch
To grasp and feel the timeless rush.
And there unearth the sacred flask,
Nectar which the gods do ask,
That fills the soul in ways unknown
And satiates the dead, alone.
And brings to it the breath of life,
The exhalation of sublime,
The bold sensation of alive,
Antagonist, but without strife.
So I will sit and look about
At all the scenes that move around,
At things that catch and hold my eye,
And pray my search in peace will lie.
And pray, though fate may prove it so
That this is not the only road,
That this is not the fate decreed
That on this lonely, broken screed,
My feet are destined there to tread,
And wander, awestruck, breath but dead,
And gaze with longing deep and wide
Upon the scenes before my eyes.
Partaking none, but loving still,
The satiated, the fulfilled.