amagmaTerrorflight

I built my house on a hill
airy and soaring with glass panel walls
grassy the knoll and lofty the ville
soft bubbling brooks, calm lakes, froth'd falls
green vale acres surrounding
the pillars and halls of my founding

I wished to paint
but I had no paint
or to put into words
my heart's complaint
Oh, would that I could
but it was no good
and song was broken
by throat's constraints

Walking into my abode's cellar
You cans see the foundations on which it was built
among casks and crates stand beams and pillars
and the stairs leading up creak each step with guilt
for all that low cavern encase:
food, drink, and other things base

In my home
I do not dwell
the wind, it blows
the curtains swell
with whiteness of ghosts
echoes of empty boasts
which, grieving, forlorn
to abandonment fell

Rancid cellars cannot be escaped with such ease
nor are they the true base away from which one flees
flows below the great river
great untaker ungiver
it is not your deceiver,
heretic or believer.

No, you are a snail, deceived by your shell
you would build you a home, and within you would dwell
Your world is round
when the true one is not
you would live in this cell
and would stay till you rot

Know that any construction achieves but one end:
to shut eyes, to deny, to avoid, to pretend
Upon life's raging liquid
nothing can stand
there is no rhyme or reason
there's no promised land
neither here, nor hereafter
there's nothing to find
but the knowledge of folly
to know you are blind
you see only the walls in your head you have built
and you try to escape them
with stairways of guilt.