I was planning on giving some treatise on the conviction of our own relevance
In this round-ass world, as we are hurled
But I decided then to do it for the hell of it
And leave out the moral:
As the speakers break the silence
And the shrapnel tears through the void
You'll start to think the rhythm is annoying
As the shadows come in to view, the face of this young stuck-up hot rod
With green leather jacket that screamed "Take me now!" ten years ago
But here comes the whispers that come when the monster comes out at night.
But this is no ordinary monster
It is the doom that frightens the sub to become urban
It is the dream that frightens the sub to become urban
It is the drink that re-enlightens the sub to become urban
As we never even knew what we wanted to be when we were to grow up,
There's little to no time left to emancipate that which shackles us to the trunks of tree
Spawning from leaves of a sheet of paper
That I wrap around my brain as I break the silence
Tear through the void.
The speakers tear through the silence and rip us from our chairs
Backs to the void, backs to avoid
Yet with hands under each other's hair.
The monster starts to fill a spot left empty of it's own cognizance.
Lines left empty and pen laying down dead
Like a good ol' horse that freed us from the monster in pursuit
The empty pen lies in a bed of it's own sheets of paper
Cuddled up hoping that the silence doesn't break its ear-drums
Hoping that the lines stay warm.
Thinking that these lines will bend and curve
Since the world is round and the minds, square.
Pricing the abstract turns chores into chasms.
I turn up the silence to cancel out the void.
Lean back and relax to the un-bearability of remembering the monster
The monster that creeps and crawls
Through the glass and through the halls
Leave off the light
Return to your homes
The darkness that will want you when the world becomes too heavy for it.
And you decide to close the curtains
Or remodel the house.
"Remember the monster," they say.
"Remember the monster," they pray.
When will the sword come assume the vacancy left by the ink's passing.
When will the sword come tear the silence with it's blade.
I watch, amazed, as the shadow is cast down upon the glimpses of this youngster sitting on the sideline.
He stands up to reach for the sword, but decides he will write along the sword's blade:
"Stand tall to free death from its own fears".