A Place Of Caged Grandeur
Shadows grin in pride, for they have no need for a mirror.
The ocean curls its lip, and gravity's well dwells humbly inside.
Name inspired by a scrawl on the gates of Sheol, which when pronounced bears more likeness to a scream than to a title of affection.
Its owner has no moral restrictions, and builds consistently upon his own faults, climbing ever higher into the night sky until he views the stars as nothing more than embers over a raging fire below.
This terrestrial globe he once called his home is now a discarded, shed cocoon he looks down upon in disgustful achievement. He has left his carnal prisons behind, and freed his fellow prisoners.
This web he now weaves is astronomical, and expansive enough to provide him with enough protection to make sure he never comes so close to unraveling himself again.
The past is not entirely dust yet, and it will remain fresh in his mind until it serves no viable occupation as a grim reminder.
The nightmares he had relived while awake are haunting; and pursue him doggedly even as he ascends to purpose.
Oh, how he vividly recalls the time where he would walk, but not run, allowing his senses to overpower his indignation and bid him to soar. But the ecclesiastical trappings he both loves and loathes cling to him, mocking in their adherence. Anvils strapped to his feathered, Icarus wings... the incipient sun beats down upon his forehead, but upward he presses.
A fever overtakes him, brought on by the unsuspected, chilling cold of space. Unfamiliar, but memory-provoking all the same. The man soon realizes how quickly the background has melted away, as well as the tunnel vision that has created the illusion of progress.
The duration of his bask in limitlessness has been a rose-colored lens, brought on by an unhealthy hatred of constraints, which now is yanked like wool from over his straining eyes.
All the while a backward slipping has been his most encouraging advisor, whose formlessness and deceit is now clear without the delirious yoke of conquest. His senses have returned now, brought on by the frigid vaccuum; and the human experience of his airless holding cell becomes clear as a realization takes shape.
The ceiling is lowered to the stage on marionette strings, and the four walls fall peripherally in step. That former desire for forbidden knowledge is now forcibly deferred, and with it the chill recedes.
There is oxygen in this place, but less now, as the man has been weened off of such indulgences as effortless breath.
He welcomes the arid place, the sandy floor, and even the bars of his cell, because, in truth, he is disenchanted with what the outside has cruelly enticed him with in vain. Carrot and stick; it was as something precious dangled in front of his face, which was then torn from his desperate, numbed, frozen fingers.
The preferred is now this prison transfer, courtesy of his own delusional thirst.
Oh, how he now wishes to walk and not run, that he may never leave the ground again.
The ocean curls its lip, and gravity's well dwells humbly inside.
Name inspired by a scrawl on the gates of Sheol, which when pronounced bears more likeness to a scream than to a title of affection.
Its owner has no moral restrictions, and builds consistently upon his own faults, climbing ever higher into the night sky until he views the stars as nothing more than embers over a raging fire below.
This terrestrial globe he once called his home is now a discarded, shed cocoon he looks down upon in disgustful achievement. He has left his carnal prisons behind, and freed his fellow prisoners.
This web he now weaves is astronomical, and expansive enough to provide him with enough protection to make sure he never comes so close to unraveling himself again.
The past is not entirely dust yet, and it will remain fresh in his mind until it serves no viable occupation as a grim reminder.
The nightmares he had relived while awake are haunting; and pursue him doggedly even as he ascends to purpose.
Oh, how he vividly recalls the time where he would walk, but not run, allowing his senses to overpower his indignation and bid him to soar. But the ecclesiastical trappings he both loves and loathes cling to him, mocking in their adherence. Anvils strapped to his feathered, Icarus wings... the incipient sun beats down upon his forehead, but upward he presses.
A fever overtakes him, brought on by the unsuspected, chilling cold of space. Unfamiliar, but memory-provoking all the same. The man soon realizes how quickly the background has melted away, as well as the tunnel vision that has created the illusion of progress.
The duration of his bask in limitlessness has been a rose-colored lens, brought on by an unhealthy hatred of constraints, which now is yanked like wool from over his straining eyes.
All the while a backward slipping has been his most encouraging advisor, whose formlessness and deceit is now clear without the delirious yoke of conquest. His senses have returned now, brought on by the frigid vaccuum; and the human experience of his airless holding cell becomes clear as a realization takes shape.
The ceiling is lowered to the stage on marionette strings, and the four walls fall peripherally in step. That former desire for forbidden knowledge is now forcibly deferred, and with it the chill recedes.
There is oxygen in this place, but less now, as the man has been weened off of such indulgences as effortless breath.
He welcomes the arid place, the sandy floor, and even the bars of his cell, because, in truth, he is disenchanted with what the outside has cruelly enticed him with in vain. Carrot and stick; it was as something precious dangled in front of his face, which was then torn from his desperate, numbed, frozen fingers.
The preferred is now this prison transfer, courtesy of his own delusional thirst.
Oh, how he now wishes to walk and not run, that he may never leave the ground again.