Death may be Delusion's friend;
before your beginning snags your end.
It's no unconsciousness in dream,
nor Ouroboros, rolling stream.
Mystify your mind with myth
that you might fade out monolith.
Heretofore death was others plight:
some other plane-fall in the night,
some other village raped and burned,
some other bill adjourned, adjourned,
some other sand-line crossed and cursed,
some other chemical dispersed.
For universe is never seen
beyond a pair of eyes that dream:
we leave a message we'll not see
to deepen their perplexity.
We leave a blessing and a curse:
reaving their tears; jolting their hearse.
We pile up culture, heap it high,
reach the expressionistic sky,
where mystic swirls Van-Gogh us all,
anomalies through bracelets crawl.
We 'fuck em up' and quit the scene
abandoning our Pearl and Dean:
10 seconds to your video,
so mute it all and sigh, you know
those stolen moments of deep thought
where seconds tick and come to nought.
For universe is never seen
beyond a pair of eyes that dream;
and death may be delusion's friend:
before your beginning snags your end.
