Where escaped that feeling,
Lost in furious motions of
Searching my head; sifting
Through the lists in idle frivolity
For notions of departure; passing
arch to find the remains,
Buried beneath the wreckage of stubborn curiosity.
There was, at a forgotten hour,
Long dead, a bridge between
Only, to experience to their full measure
The pleasures of this flawed plane,
Needs must that one was
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 which persists
Until the final end when torment,
In all its necessary
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,
the other side of truth.