The Death of Flesh, the Death of Dreams
He was saint without God
Every word a blasphemy
- The Preacher
In the end
Some
things are best left forgotten
Who here is naïve enough to
believe otherwise
When all the dreamers are dead
I
don't deny
In some things I've succeeded
Only in the great
things
My failure unmistakable
What is so dammed ironic
is
That I could see it coming
I'm not too proud to say
It
could have been avoided
Sure there is
excuse-truth
Events did conspired against me
Appealed to my
imperfect humanity
All nonsense
To speak ill of the dead
Do
you think they care about the truth?
Or are they cursing
me
Damming me in God's eyes
Perhaps when all is
over
Some good will come of it
I've never done
willing-evil
Just prepared the ground
Sadly however
I
was human first
No God existed in benevolence
And hope is
forbidden commodity
You can't trade
Not if
no one wants what you are selling
Once we absolved your sins in
water
Now I scrub your goodness with sand
I thought I was
raising slaves to be masters
"The last shall become first,"
Eh
How was I to know that I bled gadflies?
In desert, you can't
smell the rot
Rather understandable
But only in
retrospect
For see. There were people whom I loved
Lost now in
the misery of changed times
I welded my spurs with fumble
gentleness
No God will be as sloppy as that
So it matters not
if theses mad ranting survives
God hath commended the Death of
Flesh, the Death of Dreams.