"Ponce de León"
And oh, looking for the truth [the fountain of youth], but too many times getting lost when stopping to try and regroup, and ending up back in the coup where all the other penguins roost. But if none ever crow and none ever grow, does the sun ever […]"
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"Ponce de León"
And oh, looking for the truth [the fountain of youth], but too many times getting lost when stopping to try and regroup, and ending up back in the coup where all the other penguins roost. But if none ever crow and none ever grow, does the sun ever rise and the night ever close? Will the sheep ever eat if they’re being counted for sleep? Will the sailors have to swim since the lighthouse is dim? And what of this moment? Will it ever be now? If the past is the seed and the future’s the plow, what can ever be expected to be sowed, and how? It’s dirty and dark and it’s filled with disgust; it’s damp and it’s dreary and it only snows rust. But the cross, it is burning, and the people are yearning…the stained-glass is crying from the sound of the lying that corrupted their minds. ‘Cause when they sat back to find that even time isn’t real, they began to question everything that they feel. Pardoning the slow and condemning the quick, and finding out fast that to these rules the watchers do stick. But once it is learned, another fate’s earned, and there’s no way to retract back to the boiling of the urn--of socioculture, of course, I observe. It beckons the weak and it makes the living-curve. If it’s easy to breathe, then it’s hard to conceive. Unless, of course, you find the true way to see. But it’s hard to unwind the crashing of time, and harder (even still) to know just what to rewind. ‘Cause all is the same, in the fields and in your brain; and understanding this has driven even better men insane. For once you start to fight back, it’s impossible to retract. And once the thought starts to flee, it’s even harder to get back. But the facts still await, under the muck and behind the gait. Far beyond time, yet still within fate. The guardians hopefully watch as the watchers drown the masses with scotch, gin, whiskey, heroine and wine…cocaine and television and pop-culture rhymes. Fear and religion, like the grease from cooked swine, they use all these tools to dull us and keep us watching the time. But, don’t you fret, for there are no regrets. So long as you stick to the truth that you met deep within your soul, when you found that this role resides within you with a road made of gold. Just as all things are written in the stars [beyond Jupiter, Neptune, Venus, and Mars], this thing they call fate, you have to meet her half-way. For unlike us, you know she doesn’t procrastinate. For to all things are reason, and to all things are rhyme—yet not to all things is there both reason and rhyme. Confusion and illusion, together are proven to give masquerade to this vast disillusion. And notice them still, all with a hive-mind, that are going off cliffs while even more wait in line. Because like a dying man believes that he’s the only one that bleeds, try and tell a blind man what it’s like to see. And there’s no way to inspire a mind that’s been retired, so never try and fix it, just notice how it’s wired. Still, look behind the silence, and find out what it means…because what’s the point of living if you can’t recall your dreams? From the rope that you’re hanging and the drum that you’re banging, and the tune that you’re humming and the cymbal you’re clanging, and the road that you’re taking and the air your inhaling leaves you to question the words that you’re saying…and when this comes true, there’s only one thing that’ll do: What you need is a rocket that’s on track straight towards Orion, a tsunami to ride that’ll take you to Zion, a gale force wind that doesn’t ever think twice, a bullet train’s whose course is direct and precise. A super volcano forever erupting on your shoulder, one that knows your knows your trouble a million times over. Like some ancient mystic made just for your place, one that doesn’t ever pick up and leave without trace. Something that always will open a door, always reminding what you knew once before…but you couldn’t see ‘cause your eyesight was poor, and you couldn’t unscramble ‘cause all the folklore. So, where do you find this light that is burning? This yellow brick road with carousel’s turning? This fire-cloud to lead you all through the night? This foreign sensation that you’ll call the light? Where can you find this earthly black-hole that will suck you in and complete your soul? And answer the riddles and questions you seek, and give you the words for those thoughts that you think? You could go to the faith that you think might be it, or you could go to the woman that might hold your spirit. In a church you’ll only find another firing squad…But in a woman’s eyes? Well, there you’ll find God."
Brynner Fox 