Flesh and blood logic: reincarnated through exodus...
Promised to connect to us honest distrust. Together once,
then forever seems to lead our hearts vagrant.
A vestibule with destitute space: yet it stretches through Hate.
Naked in this threshold. Well, they say we should let go.
Instead I face the stairway with as graceful a pen-stroke,
as the face in the window who raises our death toll.
I guess though, there is difference between the written decree
of religiously bleak zealots and the nature of the system's disease.
Hell is just a place to witness deceit, to struggle in conditions of Greed.
But Heaven is off limits unless you get permission from We.
Masses collide, out of that will arise a simple axiom: Pride.
And the primitives considered in these transactions rely
on the very simple algorithmic passage of Time.
It's not the Man in the sky with true madness of Mind that has to decide.
Nor is it the fashioned design of any activist's sign.
Nor is it the entrapment of vice,
or your many closeted skeletons or axes to grind.
In fact, it's the kind of passion defined in what the Anachronist writes:
there's simply no atomic intelligence or exotic compelling Myth
that could disprove the Neutrino is moving faster than Light.
It takes only a fraction of a fraction of a moment's reflection,
to find in perception a proper onus to stretch your limits.
Hell is no end to living.
The Gates were just crafted by a Smithy with a bent for description.
Aesthetic encryption hidden in the pages of some relative scripture,
attempting to sway your behavior by the painting of an ethical picture.
There's never an instance where your focus should sway,
for Hell is just a metaphor for the moment when the broken dismay
of the hopeless pervades the common parlance we've chosen to Play,
like the autumn harvest that only grows when you pray.
Or when the marriage officiant jokingly says:
"Welcome to the rest of your life."
Of course, you could feel guilty for wanting to have sex with your wife.
If so, just ask your common christian apologist when is best to subscribe.
He'll tell you some such nonsense about the message of Christ,
and next you will find your "self" disemboweled,
in an instant found dead next to what's left of your mind.
These thoughts: written in silence and in darkness.
These gates, they shine of diamond and catharsis...
Promised to connect to us honest distrust. Together once,
then forever seems to lead our hearts vagrant.
A vestibule with destitute space: yet it stretches through Hate.
Naked in this threshold. Well, they say we should let go.
Instead I face the stairway with as graceful a pen-stroke,
as the face in the window who raises our death toll.
I guess though, there is difference between the written decree
of religiously bleak zealots and the nature of the system's disease.
Hell is just a place to witness deceit, to struggle in conditions of Greed.
But Heaven is off limits unless you get permission from We.
Masses collide, out of that will arise a simple axiom: Pride.
And the primitives considered in these transactions rely
on the very simple algorithmic passage of Time.
It's not the Man in the sky with true madness of Mind that has to decide.
Nor is it the fashioned design of any activist's sign.
Nor is it the entrapment of vice,
or your many closeted skeletons or axes to grind.
In fact, it's the kind of passion defined in what the Anachronist writes:
there's simply no atomic intelligence or exotic compelling Myth
that could disprove the Neutrino is moving faster than Light.
It takes only a fraction of a fraction of a moment's reflection,
to find in perception a proper onus to stretch your limits.
Hell is no end to living.
The Gates were just crafted by a Smithy with a bent for description.
Aesthetic encryption hidden in the pages of some relative scripture,
attempting to sway your behavior by the painting of an ethical picture.
There's never an instance where your focus should sway,
for Hell is just a metaphor for the moment when the broken dismay
of the hopeless pervades the common parlance we've chosen to Play,
like the autumn harvest that only grows when you pray.
Or when the marriage officiant jokingly says:
"Welcome to the rest of your life."
Of course, you could feel guilty for wanting to have sex with your wife.
If so, just ask your common christian apologist when is best to subscribe.
He'll tell you some such nonsense about the message of Christ,
and next you will find your "self" disemboweled,
in an instant found dead next to what's left of your mind.
These thoughts: written in silence and in darkness.
These gates, they shine of diamond and catharsis...
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