There is a weight upon me, still
The quivering stench of the incomplete
Looming, terrible
I can barely breathe
This isn't what I thought this would be
Toil with me, if you will
I'm sorry, O', God!
I'm sorry!
I left you there
O' God, I left you there
Might this be my atonement, might my sacrifice be done
I will die here on this Mountain
I bid thy circle's closing
I bid Thee end this Pilgrim's Path
I bid my will be done with blood unto this ink
With which I scribe my final words
And so it is done
So mote it be
So I pray for peace amidst the madness
Be free, be without pain
And receive thy Holy Mountain
With all that said and done
Here's the truth of the matter
No masks, no games
Not anymore
See, I brought this upon myself
But let it not be said that this was anything but spurious at its very best
The tides of change have ebbed and flowed between a multitude of ones and zeroes
And was it not clear from the start that this was all to be transient?
How does one reconcile the ramifications of a tale that's no longer relevant?
The answer is
You don't
Because even if it's no longer relevant to me, it's still relevant to someone
And a story once told will speak to those still headlong in the storm
Still torn asunder and dashed against the rocks
O' Westward Men!
O' Faceless Men!
O' Men of Race of Rose!
O' Darkened Souls still yet to come!
Walk all you one and all you same to tread your sullen path
Where the fissures and your sorrow heals
Before your Holy Mount
But mark my words, the storm will come again
It always comes again
And in its clutches will there lay the madness and the ecstasy
Of the singular and Holy Tale exploded onto the canvas
Even if it does not come from me there are a thousand men who came before
And millions who will yet come after
With that said I refuse to let a human being hang on my every waking word
When I cannot extend that same courtesy to myself
To do so would be a fallacy when I recognise the error of my own ways
And I, too, am to be held accountable
Aren't we all?
But I digress
See
It wasn't so clear at the start, but this would all be transient and I got lost along the way
Gripped within the murk of my own poetry and beheld by my mistakes
See, the intention was for healing but what I've found is not the same
See, this path is fraught with anger and the Way is fraught with rage
Beheld towards the ignorant and simple minds who'd see us to decay
And I refuse to be a martyr and I refuse to be a saint
But so they say
This is what happens in the mountains
I have come so far from home only to find I must return
And I am sorry
This is what happens in the mountains
I have come so far from home only to find I must return
And I am sorry
I have come so far from home only to find I must return
And I am sorry
This is what happens in the mountains
I have come so far from home only to find I must return
And I am sorry
But I have nothing else to say
