Woe to the motion of the stories in my head
Turning souls to powder take a sip and you are dead
Severing the ethos from the candle you once held
A spiteful twist of irony in everything I felt
Switching off little lights one by one until it's black
Another knife to thrust in the dizzied back
Pushing energies of chains with remembrance of the games
And forlorn wistful dancing shades as shadow music plays
In time to the fine and the senseless divine
Which could never be, never be given the right
To survive.
Is it even a question to ask
Who lurks behind that mask?
Which of the feelings I felt are illusion
Which of the feelings are shared
Does the river run freely or has it been damned
And little metal pipes now direct it by another hand
Signposts are standing and signposts are true
Some of them point directly at you
My hand on their poles like the stories of old
As my sword in my sheath waiting to be released
But it's frozen.
Desperation, agony, all emotion yet reality
As to feel is to be and to be is to do
What are these energies channelling through?
Can there be a source that is other than my mind
Is it raging truth that is sending me so blind?
Without a trusted lantern or a lightswitch to be reached
Only faith in feeling can determine what they teach
And for that my room is glowing in a vibrant sunny fire!
The faces of the enemy are fuelling my desire
For change.
Rowan Blair Colver
Turning souls to powder take a sip and you are dead
Severing the ethos from the candle you once held
A spiteful twist of irony in everything I felt
Switching off little lights one by one until it's black
Another knife to thrust in the dizzied back
Pushing energies of chains with remembrance of the games
And forlorn wistful dancing shades as shadow music plays
In time to the fine and the senseless divine
Which could never be, never be given the right
To survive.
Is it even a question to ask
Who lurks behind that mask?
Which of the feelings I felt are illusion
Which of the feelings are shared
Does the river run freely or has it been damned
And little metal pipes now direct it by another hand
Signposts are standing and signposts are true
Some of them point directly at you
My hand on their poles like the stories of old
As my sword in my sheath waiting to be released
But it's frozen.
Desperation, agony, all emotion yet reality
As to feel is to be and to be is to do
What are these energies channelling through?
Can there be a source that is other than my mind
Is it raging truth that is sending me so blind?
Without a trusted lantern or a lightswitch to be reached
Only faith in feeling can determine what they teach
And for that my room is glowing in a vibrant sunny fire!
The faces of the enemy are fuelling my desire
For change.
Rowan Blair Colver
Blue Flow by Rowan Blair Colver Posters by Rowan_Blair_Colver
Browse through more Posters, Art & Prints at Zazzle.com
