Oh bastion of virtue, portico of romantics, Muse
Make me pure again
Mortal that I am, re-birth me in your golden light
A child of the Furies
My broken feet are bleeding, tired of dragging against time
Driven through the mire
My shell of being, I am weary of seeing, feeling
Still born in still-life
I haunt the static spaces, in the freedom of my dreams
Forgotten, the will to be…be not
Where is the dream now, the promised-land, love and grace
Why now withhold your hand, bar the gate
Oh god of visions, Apollo, poet, you are the sun
The sire of Sisyphus, the wise…the condemned
The good king was right, life is a joke, only the gods are laughing
We are creatures of ridicule
Who am I, what is the meaning of life, where is my purpose?
When can I answer the eternal questions…Why?
Why me? Why you?
Why is the sky blue? Does anything matter…anything at all?
What can knowing do?
Every beating heart, pounds the rhythm of its dreams
We are carried away by them
The Echo of madness leads nowhere, we are lost in the wild
Drowned in pools of desire, of vanity