Oh, speak to me a soliloquy,
Wander us in a syllabet, a sickle, and a scythe,
I know and I know and I know
The beginning and the middle and the end,
But naught that lays between.
I’ve lost the twisting, for I know that knowledge,
All its species, they tunnel betwixt and between
In Habsburgian entangling engaged,
For all’s philosophy, all paths
Lead to beliefs that contradict and lie with others.
You see your own reflected back,
For the ignorant see only deep as their minds will allow,
Though the end extends eternal,
Should you dip a hand within,
Stone shall meet your fingertips.
Permit me peel the next skin of self-deceit
From me, for I know and I know and I know
My mind’s spit upon the spoke
Within the wanderings of time,
Bespoke, begotten, bitter and beholden
To mine own and everyone else’s.
Stir a finger in the viscous rush of time
To taste your humanity through the ebb and flow
Of that miscreant, perception.
Speak the scythe, as the syllabet demands,
The sickle lying infantile for
Your and mine’s successors.
Soliloquize sweeter, permit deceit its veiling
Once more as you slip from off the spoke.