…With the smoke before our eyes

An eon is not measured in more than one –

It is the measurement which equals the time of spirit which does not begin or end

And that is what once stood before us, before these tormented cries

An eon is not measured in more than one

You know every step of the way that the words which seep forth are the binding ties

And that is what once stood before us, before these tormented cries

The Way which we are which becomes the painting of the memories –

You know every step of the way that the words which seep forth are the binding ties

Such flimsy scaffolding from which to hinge our hearts

The Way which we are which becomes the painting of the memories

…left bewildered upon a field of sprawling darkness, dotted with the smolder of delusion

Such flimsy scaffolding from which to hinge our hearts

Oh, however it comes, it does; the reality of the carelessness of our emotional wildfires

…left bewildered upon a field of sprawling darkness, dotted with the smolder of delusion

Do you feel it now, the urge to bury all of this?

Oh, however it comes, it does; the reality of the carelessness of our emotional wildfires

Collapsing eternity, the shattering of forever – from whence it came is not a matter, as it feels the same

Do you feel it now, the urge to bury all of this?

As removed, does the single self becoming separate become the cure; if that were the idol of blame?