I thank Heav'n again for the Sun,
That ever shineth, so long as Ever Is, and I am I.
Indeed, we are all gold, and red, and white,
Each incessant in awaiting pause that brakes the engine.
We are gold, and red, and white,
Preparing for the death of Sight.
So, why not hold me as a tattered coat,
To merry, don by fireside?
Clothing thy color by the bosom o' the shadow,
Where from is harvested stillness,
Grown in fields of crypticism.
Lo!
If one is humanly flawed,
Perhaps oneself the very disfigurement of a rainbow,
Is it not so that one's heart's forest woods,
Might be haunted by a tribal wild rumpus?
Turning, turning, even heart's lips,
Are drawn, and cracked, and peeling,
Pressed against by the abrasive evening of a California winter...
While even heart's oh-so-rosy cheeks,
Are chapped by winter's breath.
Hope dimming, dimming, while even heart's body,
Is manhandled, and prodded with prods,
And set about and again by All the Mad Hands of Stone Cold Time...
While even heart's back is shattered
With utterances of the notion,
That we are basking in the mist and the dust,
Of bitter, more than sweet victory's rhapsody,
All challenged by the demonic pulses...
Even while my smiling heart's grave is being dug,
Out in the valley, a hole they're diggin' there for me,
Wherein shall be lain my ego's prideful necromancy,
The Angel's Wheel of Self has shifted from its everlasting axis...
Groping all blind is for the heart without sun in winter.
Groping all blind is safer for the heart,
In this glory of a love all ever-lasting!
King Kong has long since died.
What good is it really?
Blue and black, and old and cold, it is all that is left of you, Kong.
So, are we all not gold, and red, and white?
Gold and red and white,
Preparing for the death of Sight.