Agile sprites are we
Who spit back needfully
Aghast, aflame
Our threadbare rage unmends
The orchestra of bleach
The angelic cacophony
Trying to split time
Trying to cheat two extra beats
Tattered kites
Backlit by fission and filament
A fleet of knots in
The bliss of permanent dark
What the wishful embrace is a pattern
What the pattern distorts is the end
What the endless obscures is revision
What tradition holds sacred is death
So the chorus admires the soles of its feet
And begs for the notes to unshackle its throat
But the song that it shivers — at best bittersweet
Is the dirge of a heart that completely forgot how to beat
Harm's way overflows with incomplete
Time makes tracks for trains
But not for folks who walk the empty planes
And not for folks who do not fear the end
We'll get there when we're ready
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