LoneWolf 1999
Im walking on a candlelit path, written with markings from the past.
I am but a grave overture shifting with sands this pure,
time stopping still at every gate; all called, perhaps tempting fate.
Yet this road, however peaceful it may seem, is filled with traps.
Obscure looking thornless roses are but signs of how unreal this world is.
The world, like a figurine ready to break, plays a crystal glass upon the creators --
gods of unseeming beauty.
I hold the world in my hand, for whatever I want to mean, speaks nothing
of the gods who watch.
They cry, for life stories that touch them.
Perhaps those life they made tragically horrible, sorrowful.
And sometimes, great ONES do appear in the grand theatre they created.
The ONES who change the world -- the gifted, the visionaries...
The world, teeming with people like these,
living their life in a corner,
all their talent wasted.
And all because they have grown cynical of this world.
"You see, this what life is all about," said they, referring to a shell.
And I'd look into the shell and see it empty.
The shell is empty because you choose it to be.
But a wise man would know, nothing can ever be empty.
For even in that emptiness, everything is filled.
Walk along with me on the beach.
Stand beside me, prismed in the sun's afterglow.
Aren't we but dreamers, dreaming of a life besides our own?
Time is continous,
life is monotonous.
The world, like a figurine ready to break,
is broken.
Play me for a violin.
For how long will you walk?
For how long will you sail?
For how long will you be?
Just be.
Not a name.
Im walking on a candlelit path, written with markings from the past.
I am but a grave overture shifting with sands this pure,
time stopping still at every gate; all called, perhaps tempting fate.
Yet this road, however peaceful it may seem, is filled with traps.
Obscure looking thornless roses are but signs of how unreal this world is.
The world, like a figurine ready to break, plays a crystal glass upon the creators --
gods of unseeming beauty.
I hold the world in my hand, for whatever I want to mean, speaks nothing
of the gods who watch.
They cry, for life stories that touch them.
Perhaps those life they made tragically horrible, sorrowful.
And sometimes, great ONES do appear in the grand theatre they created.
The ONES who change the world -- the gifted, the visionaries...
The world, teeming with people like these,
living their life in a corner,
all their talent wasted.
And all because they have grown cynical of this world.
"You see, this what life is all about," said they, referring to a shell.
And I'd look into the shell and see it empty.
The shell is empty because you choose it to be.
But a wise man would know, nothing can ever be empty.
For even in that emptiness, everything is filled.
Walk along with me on the beach.
Stand beside me, prismed in the sun's afterglow.
Aren't we but dreamers, dreaming of a life besides our own?
Time is continous,
life is monotonous.
The world, like a figurine ready to break,
is broken.
Play me for a violin.
For how long will you walk?
For how long will you sail?
For how long will you be?
Just be.
Not a name.
