Once I give my love away, a shred of my immortal shade, lingers even as winds upon me flay, even for the lost soul astrayed. Far, distant, I lay out the land of final home. There I find the hearth and fire stone; an angel sits upon my foundation, calling me to near salvation. Philosopher kings you are not near. Prophets long sleep among the dead, yet I find a Spirit holds me dear. A passing heart string heavy as lead. Bursting from my mortal seams, violin strings sing solemn dreams. All the while, an ashtray holds my love, thrown at the wind, rings to glory above I am no great thinker of old My mind aims for supplication Though wicked hands try to fold Rage and regret into wrathful inspiration. Yea! Valley of final darkness behold! My shepherd shall bend your knee, apathetic scars bear their iron scold But in the face of my sympathetic plea... Fiery wars and unseen realms... Hearken, haste! Return to the shieldwall! Foolish men lose their selves You must have upmost indignance and gall Glory be. Our Father. These litanies of old schooling and language perceived that no new follies return with novelty and no false teacher or wolf has certainty. Liars, gossips, cowards, all these will fall like dead branches in the whirling storm All while, the lamb lying down in it's blood Clothes us, poor wretched, from the flood.
