This path that we walk upon is the collection of points that the rain has drawn
The rhythm section of the storm
By the moonlight to the gateposts of the forest,
in the snow light, we are bound for the portal of the pines
Grey as famine, on this path against our will by our main sails we're bound to the tempest until the sea is still
Which compulsion with this miniature death tributize?
From behind the walls of my broken coughing tent, a formal vision,
but I allude to my helpless passion for the obtuse
When will this night end?
When the lightening finally tears through the mast of our sinking ship
All the hopes of the slaves are betrayed by the grates
On this coffin of a vessel every note's another breaking wave
Revel in this vision, a formal visitation, on the night with the light from above
Famished dogs follow slowly as my own paws drag me to a dock,
to the last plank where I struggle to deny myself the path that every Pisces craves,
just above the water in the middle of that man-made lake
On that pier I turn my eyes from the water like a mirror of myself in the moonlight,
and I cough for every crater that I could see,
on the surface of that coffin we've come to call the moon
Now I wonder if all those judgments that you made were true
And the trapdoor of the solstice is thrown wide, wide open
Let them all sink, let them all sink through
The talking, the spinning of a web- its all just formal ritual
The burning
The burning question "what do you deserve?"
The gazing at a candle to find calm, but we all know its at the center of the storm
Oh moon, though pluckest me out, oh moon-
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall and walked among the lowest of the dead
(to Carthage then I came)
Only the most sacred crater will suit my burial,
only the most sacred choir performs this ritual dirge
Perfectly imperfect, like a storm
By our mane dragged and bound to our grave by our mane,
to the grave dragged and bound to the tomb by the scavenger's tooth