Guitar's Cry
Disciple of Pan
Hot off the press, and still dripping ink.
Tiptoeing
I tiptoe through fairy lands built of fantasy.
Where is the line drawn between them and reality?
When I wake, my dreams are still there
Sometimes in teardrops,
Sometimes in laughter,
Sometimes in a solid wall of desire that must be beaten down
Before the pressures of the Watch and Calendar leave them discarded
(Like so much litter on the street.)
Cold streets.
They reek of Undeath; life yearning to be let go.
To slip into the graves where it may grow again;
But nevermore.
They are paved with tombstones that serve as coffins--
The masks of instincts sequestered.
Misunderstood are the madman’s ravings;
They echo beneath our skins.
Our hearts may be nothing but organs
That pump blood in our veins;
Our veins may just be rivers
That fill the ocean of our brains;
But our brains are knives that dissect darkness
Into palatable portions that we call Things.
And there lies the line,
Discarded like so much illusion in the wake of Enlightenment.
Transcended are the battlefields of Romanticism and Reason.
And as I step carefully over the broken weapons
I wonder.
Where is the Spirit of the Heart?
For its carries the knowledge of the Universe.
Tiptoeing
I tiptoe through fairy lands built of fantasy.
Where is the line drawn between them and reality?
When I wake, my dreams are still there
Sometimes in teardrops,
Sometimes in laughter,
Sometimes in a solid wall of desire that must be beaten down
Before the pressures of the Watch and Calendar leave them discarded
(Like so much litter on the street.)
Cold streets.
They reek of Undeath; life yearning to be let go.
To slip into the graves where it may grow again;
But nevermore.
They are paved with tombstones that serve as coffins--
The masks of instincts sequestered.
Misunderstood are the madman’s ravings;
They echo beneath our skins.
Our hearts may be nothing but organs
That pump blood in our veins;
Our veins may just be rivers
That fill the ocean of our brains;
But our brains are knives that dissect darkness
Into palatable portions that we call Things.
And there lies the line,
Discarded like so much illusion in the wake of Enlightenment.
Transcended are the battlefields of Romanticism and Reason.
And as I step carefully over the broken weapons
I wonder.
Where is the Spirit of the Heart?
For its carries the knowledge of the Universe.
