The thing of your own doing the thing that hurts the most, the thing of your undoing the name on the signpost
Weary from hope and sorrow and weary from tears of loss, thrown into the world weary of you with a careless and wreckless toss
Sight for weary eyes, and signpost for the lost, an auction a chance, a thing of wonder at such a heavy cost
The buyer a blind fool of fools, a master of remorse, but the magical game compels him to play and begs him to stay the course
Endeavor to persevere my son, wisdom of sages and ages will say, and heart can be taken by the man unshaken for where there’s a will, surely a way
Cling to the ages, rewind the sages and play their tune again, without it we are lost and at oh what a cost, their sin we repeat as kin
It destroys my importance this pain, this imposition upon my will, and further and further I’m cursed to push the heavy up the hill
The gods how they must laugh and giggle with delight, starve them we should of praise and rob them of their sight
The stage the show the characters, they’ve all forgotten their lines, how drunk we’ve become an unbecoming narcissus with our soft and envious eyes
Drink the pool down and sade us now with wicked and wondrous ways, in such a somatic stupor we call, a return to the mother we claim
A quiet call down the clamorous hall, with little to show for our time, beckons us back to the darkness, if you listen you’ll hear the chime
Twelve strikes are coming, and only twice round the face do we trip, but against what bell, with such murderous hell, and who cracketh the whip?
Goodnight from here if you dare that word without wondering from whom it came, and goodnight for good, for better, my god, the tongue eternally tame!