All that we win is garnished in the end
by the ancient process that gilds love
above our sins, and it was a tree that
married us to the Earth, and it was a flower
that showed us the beauty of the dirt.

All this old armor is breaking with rust
in the summer reeds, beneath the archaic
watchtower replete as a vision of belief
in aesthetic technologies beneath the modern
illusions, all these devices that are built
upon prior ruins.

And our fates conspired to tear at our heart
strings with the storms of the Arctic,
we merely knitted blankets with strands of
wool because we thought sheep to be cautious
instead of led to bleed. But now our fates
have fragmented from the gods of our destinies
and we have no need to be cautious when discussing
life's transient mysteries.

Drink this perfume, it fills the violet room
drink in this scent of magnolias and wash your
hands in blessed rivers while your clothes
tangle with a branch, for nature is intelligent
with the desires of our past, and nature is
benevolent when we come to her at last.

Be the disease that crumples cold old men,
be the iron breeze that cuts through the stolen den.

Remember our lessons in camping any place,
with our tin can stove and nettle soup
that nourished us by developing heat from within.
Follow the tower, the pinion of the Earth,
it reaches to starlight and humbles itself
in dirt. It reaches to starlight, like your
eyes upon the night, it reaches to starlight
when the rest are using kites.

Bring your prison symphony to the broken
crescent of a harboured shore, and bring
your tormented heart strings to the pity
of a kind-hearted whore. Bring all your
things and throw them to the fire,
burn all the wings built from car tires
and piston oil, they were built by someone
else in order for your hearts to spoil
with disbelief at peculiar things wrought
by divine machines, what you've been taught
is merely someone else's dream.