Oh, Papa, you stumbled out of the garden
All for a destined love and into time.
Mama, do dreams stroke softer than Truth?
Delicious fruit of the desirous heart,
and the seasons and the cosmos always cyclical,
Swirling to the music of creation.
Your eyes once grasped that sight, but
You both blinked and your sight-- cataracts.
Now, the moments tick by
At the stroke of linearity and the mechanism;
Hands pointing the way to our judgement,
And the broken and lost moments creeping their way along...
Succession upon succession through...
Generation after generation...
Our state from the overture, a magnum opus,
Degenerating, we sons and daughters to the lost,
Progeny of wayward progenitors.
Look, what has become, and do you weep?
So many souls down their thorny paths,
Labyrinthine and futile struggles.
The beast haunting their every step
Giving no quarter to the stumblers.
A lion's roar and a Lamb's song echo the halls!
Your Father is ours, and His love hovers
Ever above.
Wide is that gate, but don't forget the door.
The secret is no secret, knock and it will open!

Pretender

I'm a pretender
You look right at me,
but I'm not there for you to see
I dance the dance of marionettes
On prearranged monochrome sets
I'm a pretender
The smile you see, given back to me
My mask is painted by society
It fits me well within the contours
It's very different than that of yours
I'm a pretender
I take it off when you don't look
I steal impressions like a crook
I dance to your tin can tune
Half glance towards the moon
I'm a pretender
Strings twitching here and there
Twirling in the cold dry air
Illusions of day keep them at bay
I know you all prefer it that way
We are all pretenders

Contingencies...

On what does your happiness depend?
Who or what makes you happy?
Without these things what are you?
Are you miserable, depressed, lost in despair and reaching out for something to fill the gaps left by the absence of which you depend?
We are a fragile people that rely on contingencies to feel complete.  Take them away, the contingencies, and we fall apart and scramble for something, anything, to numb the pain.
Surely, that is not all there is... That is not true happiness... It's avoidance...  It's looking out instead of in...

That moment when, after great torment and suffering, there is a release and all that is and should be comes to your aid. Life lives once again! Out of the pit comes a ravaged man, but not broken, and ready to climb the branches of that beautiful, mangled tree to reach the rays of the sun.

The Hour Glass

and naturally so

as the cycle ends

furthest away from the divine center

and our backs turned towards it

resigned to death

in fact, asking for it

in so many veiled ways

we fall to our knees in exhaustion

but take the gun in our hands

and fire at those around us

everything

everything beautiful

despair and failure

shame and hate

our swan song