Shackled to Space
And handcuffed to time
And both of them calling the tune...to crime?
I do not know where the road turns
Or what surprise lay beyond the turns
You smiled with hidden abuse
And called my name, once upon an age
And myself made naive with innosence
Sick of sin and full of rage
Or whatever one dare call it.
You you shook my hand full of sores
And begged me to shake yours
I did not understand
I was blinded by the sand.
And yet within these curtains
A nightangle begins to sing
She was my dearest friend and flying
And he didn't have a single wing.
On a quest to slaughter dragons
He headed towards a dungeon
Superficially, there seems to be no justification
In the suffereng of his soul's starvation
He did not know...but I did see it glow.
Yet did not recognize it immediately.
There is a patter
a reason
a purpose
a specific
reason for him to be.
A logic for all his days of strife
A certain scheme in the fabric of his life.
I gave him a paper clipping
A dead baby in Bosnia
His head...bleeding.
A vicious wickedness offset by the immaculate purity of the other.
THe baby's final howling tear
His sense of guilt
Deep, better, remorse, fear.
And a fierce desire to atone his sins.
He still does not realize that
these in him I see.
Surely there is someone
Who sees my purpose in me?
Will someone give me a paper Clipping too?
[This message has been edited by writnpage (edited 29 June 2000).]
[This message has been edited by writnpage (edited 30 June 2000).]
And handcuffed to time
And both of them calling the tune...to crime?
I do not know where the road turns
Or what surprise lay beyond the turns
You smiled with hidden abuse
And called my name, once upon an age
And myself made naive with innosence
Sick of sin and full of rage
Or whatever one dare call it.
You you shook my hand full of sores
And begged me to shake yours
I did not understand
I was blinded by the sand.
And yet within these curtains
A nightangle begins to sing
She was my dearest friend and flying
And he didn't have a single wing.
On a quest to slaughter dragons
He headed towards a dungeon
Superficially, there seems to be no justification
In the suffereng of his soul's starvation
He did not know...but I did see it glow.
Yet did not recognize it immediately.
There is a patter
a reason
a purpose
a specific
reason for him to be.
A logic for all his days of strife
A certain scheme in the fabric of his life.
I gave him a paper clipping
A dead baby in Bosnia
His head...bleeding.
A vicious wickedness offset by the immaculate purity of the other.
THe baby's final howling tear
His sense of guilt
Deep, better, remorse, fear.
And a fierce desire to atone his sins.
He still does not realize that
these in him I see.
Surely there is someone
Who sees my purpose in me?
Will someone give me a paper Clipping too?
[This message has been edited by writnpage (edited 29 June 2000).]
[This message has been edited by writnpage (edited 30 June 2000).]