Reprise: Iceland Spar

oh, the lord loves to paint
but he best save that canvas for your technicolor cries
your damaged desires for a shell manifest in a mirrorproof vest
where you hide from your best
and conspire to caress a malevolent mess
never born, so forlorn, you conform to the cryptic confusion of you
taunting the tyranny of terrible truths
conjuring injury, with purity you jest
offending your oracle with that terrible mess
in your mind, losing light
craving night's malevolent name
maiden in her voyage to seduce and to spill
and to save that cursed canvas that will color your cries
stripped to the surface by your tedious trials
and errors
and endings
and questions caress

the shell that i pierce through your mirrorproof vest

why?
look around
could you honestly sputter the delicate sound of a soul that is found?
no, you breathe in and drown in the lack of the up and the down
that only the most vicious void in your veins and your voice would allow
and no chain or charred rope or scarred church or cold dream
could bind you as completely as a total emptiness
a mad, crippled chaos in an infinite cocoon
where eternal damnation and bliss eclipse like the sun and the moon
and a frail forever will shrivel too soon
if the lightning splits the sky of the i and the you

I am the marriage of minutes and clouds
Divorced in the desert of mirrors and doubts
I am the innocence in a hospital birth
Belligerent like a sinner's sacrilege curse
I am the doubt that puts curses away
Mind over matter never mattered anyway
I am the Earth that holds matter in place
I am the smog of an indifferent race
I am the politics of cleaning the air
And I'm every lobbyist that doesn't play fair
I am the law that will bind you in chains
And I am the bribe that will break them again
I am indifference to material wealth
A different indifference of a much sicker sense
I am the morals that will mold sense from scratch
Morals, moreover, go many years back
Once I was time when time wasn't me
Tame like Siddhartha rotting under a tree
I am the peace of a siren strung street
Depraved like a drum that won't let itself beat
Rich in respect, it's the self I won't sell
And your high hell of hoping for high hopes in hell
Now these bells in my hell tell the tale of myself
The self whose reflection it did see in a well
I'd rather wish the water to wash away my lungs than bleed out the me into the cancer of us
The you that you'd bleed is the disease of the we; they're one in the same, the you and the me