Man - like earth - both flower and decay.
Tyrants and men of ideals feign the black-eyed children.
'Till plight and injustice wakes this earth
To galvanize them to sacrifice and abnegation;
Ripe are the fools and the damned who have longed for a promised land.
In the heap of temptations, hope would mark the ruins.
"The tree of knowledge is not that of life."
And so he grinds his own hands,
Where there was never justice for all.
There is a stain of perspective in those expiring eyes.
When he mines his own helm,
And serves for the greater glory.
Arm the angels,
Bedevilled by our lesser judgment.
And another man will die;
It is practically what he is here for.
And they will fly their flags at half mast
As if this would imply justice.
Never pitied, they will make this mistake again.
And again - the damned deny the ages,
And the greatest of ironies:
Our enlightenment would rise;
And with it, the vileness of man.
"The tree of knowledge is not that of life."
And so he grinds his own hands,
Where there was never justice for all.
There is a stain of perspective in those expiring eyes.
When he mines his own helm,
And serves for the greater glory.
It is seldom the days in the dark,
When he defines his own hell.
But in the violent wake of the wise
Where the rabid dog dies.
Taring at the roots, where the rats beckon asunder.
"Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler;
And the noisome pestilence."
But men are left disturbed, yet again.
It is seldom the days in the dark,
When he defines his own hell.
But in the rotted wake of the light,
Where the parasite dies.
There is no redemption arc in the record of eternal truths.
Just an endless sequence of cross-currents
To the terminus of all paradises lost.