You bolt the door And swallow the key That’s right, say you can’t believe There’s no need-when you’re freed-will to be This is art. Cannot see-can’t perceive-cannot be The coming of the end Wince: Strain to see-in this void-we’re losing it Is the art of man Wrench these words from my jaws, drain, dehydrate Because these words are fallible imperfect vessels tossing in a sea of thought I can’t tell you the truth but I can tell you where it is. Dilettante Settle or panic, Passion blurs your vision Midst your stride, Risk it You start to fade Drop anchors. I can show you where it is. Drop anchors. Unrefined, my paradigm Function, form, and fashion: I know that what I am saying is raw, but witness the turning wheels of this global economy, grinding up man into ever smaller pieces. I see blank eyes and restless drawls responding to the emerging crisis of modern life, ringing emotions out. Don’t invent inside what is out. Reason knows perfection as thirst knows water. If you’re thirsty, then believe and satisfy your thirst. Drink from this cup. Come on bended knee. Don’t let passion brand your battle, it’ll only wear you out. Drink at the cross of redemption.