Where escaped that feeling,
Lost in furious motions of lead?
Searching my head; sifting
Through the lists in idle frivolity
For notions of departure; passing
Under the arch to find the remains,
Buried beneath the wreckage of stubborn curiosity.

There was, at a forgotten hour,
Long dead, a bridge between those worlds.
Only, to experience to their full measure
The pleasures of this flawed plane,
Needs must that one was born
To the father, rather than son.
We could see, then, the spectacle
Of that, our earth's spectral birth.

Rising from the ashes of this creation
And permeating these spheres of existence,
A detachment.
A detachment which persists
Until the final end when torment,
In all its necessary forms, desists.
We pause, on the precipice of temptation,
Choosing between what we know to be wrong
And only think to be right.
Too often are we failed by a low sense;
When we fall, crashing through memory
And landing, restless,
On the other side of truth.