What is the speck in the sheen of those eyes?
A heaviness private that warps the outside
A fear that the best is no better than now
A thing in the closet, muffled and chained,
Ne’er leaving nor ceasing its sinister cries
What is the rut in the song of that voice?
It preaches redemption but chokes at “Rejoice!”
It canters with grace until something befalls
Then confidence vanishes, gone like a light,
And halfhearted promises blur into noise
Where are the fruits of this promising soul?
Smothered by lust for an ideal whole
Or stories and pity and ease in its place
Each wrong goal pursued breeds failure and doubt
And further ignites the insatiable pull
All paths tried but one which still remains
Face the thing and question its old chains
Let the golden walls around you fall
Free the thing and watch it roam the halls