Smooth...
If words can play the game. If books can blurt out its contents and wash away my fears. Deny the acts of courage and follow a central leader - eyes closed, blindly. What can the world bring but distraught and shame. The sin of the lie aching in the depth of her being. Hiding behind a closet between the stacks of sleeveless clothes. Bright eyes dull the pain, nothing more to shoot the duck with.
A moments fleece. I'm talking about the fleece of the lamb not old enough to be a sheep. The golden fleece more precious than the common white. Wait for the clock to strike one and you'll see. The cup, the Holy Grail, the round table disappears without a trace.
Nay, i say there is more to this story then a couple of flies. No fly sits on the throne, only a king. How can a servant bring a king down. Only a servant who has the mind of a king can match the kings response; plots a revolution, initiates his abdication. How would the mere slave attain such a degree. Knowledge or character will match the crown tree?
In the end...
Words words nothing but words, playing in my abstract head. But what remains is ideas. Ideas that will sell only if the slave is kingly enough to present it a logical clear way; lest nobody buys it and thus conclude, that he is just not meant to be understood. Has anybody the patience to look at the meaning. Taking it at face value does not help. So where are the pictures which paints a thousand words? Even i doubt the painting works.
If words can play the game. If books can blurt out its contents and wash away my fears. Deny the acts of courage and follow a central leader - eyes closed, blindly. What can the world bring but distraught and shame. The sin of the lie aching in the depth of her being. Hiding behind a closet between the stacks of sleeveless clothes. Bright eyes dull the pain, nothing more to shoot the duck with.
A moments fleece. I'm talking about the fleece of the lamb not old enough to be a sheep. The golden fleece more precious than the common white. Wait for the clock to strike one and you'll see. The cup, the Holy Grail, the round table disappears without a trace.
Nay, i say there is more to this story then a couple of flies. No fly sits on the throne, only a king. How can a servant bring a king down. Only a servant who has the mind of a king can match the kings response; plots a revolution, initiates his abdication. How would the mere slave attain such a degree. Knowledge or character will match the crown tree?
In the end...
Words words nothing but words, playing in my abstract head. But what remains is ideas. Ideas that will sell only if the slave is kingly enough to present it a logical clear way; lest nobody buys it and thus conclude, that he is just not meant to be understood. Has anybody the patience to look at the meaning. Taking it at face value does not help. So where are the pictures which paints a thousand words? Even i doubt the painting works.
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