Pen down these words,
for they fade easily.
The laws of cause and effect aren't meandering
So do something now, rather than fleetingly.
Idealism isn't a young man's game,
for delusions often make him tame.
"Is our sole purpose to live our story?
or is it to write our own history?"
There's a shooting star in place,
stationary yet lacking any complacency.
Who's one to stop it? Who's one to control it?
Only it, can find its pathway forward.
The crack of dawn, with its radiant rays,
casts a shadow of doubt on your outlook.
But when the people start chiming, the words start flowing,
that's when all seems right in place.
No mercy from the ghost within,
blinded by the ashes of the past.
"Wither!" under looming shadow cast,
Herein, lies the wrath of man.
The aura around you scares you from within,
"But alas, how can I change,
won't they end up finding me a little strange?"
So you cast that thought away,
and lay down to watch the Borealis
enchant you today.
The gallows echo with laughter,
for the hangman played his last letter.
"A bad man", they all say.
"Animals, All of Them" is all you can say.
Ash from the timber flows through you,
the trigger is in place too.
All one can do is wait and see,
and hope for their headache to subceed.
To feel closer to something,
is to feel some familiar sense of longing.
To be closer to something,
is to be at peace with a renewed sense of meaning.
As you stand on the edge of a waterfall,
you ask yourself, "why am I above it all?"
Did you come here on your own?
"Of course I did, not behest to the throne."
But you think and start to realize,
that whatever had happened, you'd be here, on the throughline.
What can one do but stare,
in the abyss as his arrival becomes rare.
In the end, "does anyone care?"
But in the end, at least you dared.
Redemption, measurable it is not.
But whose there to count? One caught
in the act isn't to care.
But taking that first step?
Only few men would dare.
Mayday! Mayday!
But we stand in fear.
A fear that's gripping,
us all, a song leaving them in tears.
Gaze your eyes upon the ocean,
where man often refines their notion.
As you walk away from the sun,
you'll find the true meaning of a job well done.
Dread is a funny little game,
thinking, thinking, thinking, a shame.
Because imagine what one can do,
if that time was spent on what's true.
Here I am, by the lakeside,
where no one's around to turn me to faith's side.
But what's one to do,
if and when a man reaches his waste side?