W
WolfOfOdin
Samsara
This is the cruelest of times,
When hope rises high and
soars, wings extended full
and yet falls to in bloody
tatters,machine guns
heralding its downward
dance.
I Can show you misery
and pain, in a hand full of
Dirt. Sorrow and malaise,
In a pool of black water.
Creation is a fool's errand,
When all we build rusts and
decays, as do we at time's
fickle proclivities.
So thus do we burn down,
And rip that which lifts us
To naught but ghosts and
Shattered memories.
So we walk, through
Stagnant pool and cluttered
Debris, so do we walk across
A land brought low at our own
Insistence.
And through this land, of
Gray and sepia, do we
Stumble and thus we die,
Reclaimed at last by our
Own urges, turned inward
At long, long last.
And thus are we now,
A corpse within the corpse
Of a world, its heart torn
Out and savaged by
Our own maddening
Loathing.
We wound ourselves, and thus
We wound the world itself.
We harden ourselves, and thus
We harden the world's beating heart.
We decay and rot from within, riven by
Hatred and joylessness, and thus does
Our world as well.
And at last, as flesh becomes dirt and
Bones become debris, do we fade away,
Into a sea of memories.
There is no end here, for all ends
Are merely beginnings of a different sort.
Destruction breeds creation, as creation
Screams for destruction.
Death consumes us as we live, for
We live to die, create to destroy,
We end so that we may begin.
This is the cruelest of times,
When hope rises high and
soars, wings extended full
and yet falls to in bloody
tatters,machine guns
heralding its downward
dance.
I Can show you misery
and pain, in a hand full of
Dirt. Sorrow and malaise,
In a pool of black water.
Creation is a fool's errand,
When all we build rusts and
decays, as do we at time's
fickle proclivities.
So thus do we burn down,
And rip that which lifts us
To naught but ghosts and
Shattered memories.
So we walk, through
Stagnant pool and cluttered
Debris, so do we walk across
A land brought low at our own
Insistence.
And through this land, of
Gray and sepia, do we
Stumble and thus we die,
Reclaimed at last by our
Own urges, turned inward
At long, long last.
And thus are we now,
A corpse within the corpse
Of a world, its heart torn
Out and savaged by
Our own maddening
Loathing.
We wound ourselves, and thus
We wound the world itself.
We harden ourselves, and thus
We harden the world's beating heart.
We decay and rot from within, riven by
Hatred and joylessness, and thus does
Our world as well.
And at last, as flesh becomes dirt and
Bones become debris, do we fade away,
Into a sea of memories.
There is no end here, for all ends
Are merely beginnings of a different sort.
Destruction breeds creation, as creation
Screams for destruction.
Death consumes us as we live, for
We live to die, create to destroy,
We end so that we may begin.
