Post by Rashyyd on Aug 13, 2006 6:39:45 GMT -5
A tower, a refuge. A place from which to see, safely, and know.
ASPIRATION, INSPIRATION
Borne up on dreams and will, sentient incense, fog of faiths, castles in the sky to rival necropoli. This hard work that must not fall, built on the stones of ancient past, built on the tombs of the dead as tribute to they not yet born.
PERSPIRATION, RESPIRATION
From the womb we scream, a warcry in the face of life and its pains, a challenge to the Might Have Been, the we that never were... because We Are. Push out this breath, this incarnate hope and stop only when it is gone. Hold. Then pull in, drink this life and its wisdoms -- sweet on the tongue and bitter in the belly -- until we are saturated and full. Hold. And again and again until we forget how and we scream our victories and challenges and regrets as easy as sighing.
DESPERATION, EXPIRATION
And all things fall. Our scream quiets. Silence. And then... and then... We've tombs to build upon, a void to fill, a downward path to leisurely tread before climbing, building, growing from rich soil made pregnant with blood and death. And our sarcophagus is our quiet womb, and in resting, we are not dead. Hard work this... this life... and for what?
We ascend atop our spire, our spirit, and consider from this higher vantage.
ASPIRATION, INSPIRATION
Borne up on dreams and will, sentient incense, fog of faiths, castles in the sky to rival necropoli. This hard work that must not fall, built on the stones of ancient past, built on the tombs of the dead as tribute to they not yet born.
PERSPIRATION, RESPIRATION
From the womb we scream, a warcry in the face of life and its pains, a challenge to the Might Have Been, the we that never were... because We Are. Push out this breath, this incarnate hope and stop only when it is gone. Hold. Then pull in, drink this life and its wisdoms -- sweet on the tongue and bitter in the belly -- until we are saturated and full. Hold. And again and again until we forget how and we scream our victories and challenges and regrets as easy as sighing.
DESPERATION, EXPIRATION
And all things fall. Our scream quiets. Silence. And then... and then... We've tombs to build upon, a void to fill, a downward path to leisurely tread before climbing, building, growing from rich soil made pregnant with blood and death. And our sarcophagus is our quiet womb, and in resting, we are not dead. Hard work this... this life... and for what?
We ascend atop our spire, our spirit, and consider from this higher vantage.