Fear cultivation through the centuries Grip what denial compels Caught unaware for ever more Proud distractions to ourselves Building high our house of cards Foundations laid on shifting sands Hold on tight and loathe all change To this the most subtle of storms
Slow dancing in the pulse reflection of our own illusion
Where the worlds within do not end or begin Tempests in a teapot, barely afloat in oceans unknown Pitch black dread of the undefined sublime When the props of our self made plays fade away Blind rage erupting in flames, Sedate the pain denial instills Comfort the infant behind all the grief, Blind eye to the one when life kills
Futile graspings hereafter karma bound not to let go Hell, only our neurotic projections Upon the everchanging canvas
We strut and fret our hour upon the stage, acting out our impostors foil In frozen silence we scream the true name upon the face of all our fears When illusions return to nothing on that fateful day And then at the end we meet the beginning again The realisation ,the lifting of the veil Face to face with a once buried stranger, Living with answers from day one
Slow dancing in the pulse reflection of our own illusion
Swallow conditioning, toe the role tradition dictates Trapped on the ideals pedestal, pin prick truths- ego deflates Religious fervour mask our emptiness Drudge through another hollow day Slipping through the cracks on paths so well worn The most subtle of storms