The turn of the century, the lunar fall
The eyes in the heavens, the end of all
The death of perfection, the Considerate, moved, searches his conscience,
I've found a way to save this, the Architect is blameless,
My oils have found a purpose, I'll paint the new with the old, and save his soul.
So, from naivety is born division
Onto the canvas must be drawn every soul
To cover tracks he must do so with swiftness,
And in this act deny one the right to be whole
Onto the canvas must be drawn every soul, every deviation
To satisfy, and so too undermine a game of Gods and dice
A traveller walks across these lifeless lands,
Gathering pieces strewn across timeless sands.
Cloaked, emerging from the desert,
Waiting for this world's end to seize its treasure
But what of he that is not one,
He is the one forgotten,
And how he longs to gather his pieces,
How he longs for oneness
Onto the canvas must be drawn every soul, every deviation
To satisfy aesthetic intention divine.
But what if the plot should twist?
Emerges the ever-silent, the ever-watching
Climb the last step just to find another stairway
