039: Hours passed in exile

Again and again, faces dance,

music helps, still condemns,

visible husk gets banned, inject

the serum of empty days, cutting blade,

the soft fabric of todays, elastic

against a hungry vortex,

a faint eye, library of pain on paper,

selfcollapsed beneath its weight,

a volcanic cenotaph stands

where the crowning jewel

should be.

Waiting hours, days and seasons,

waiting for the snow to flee,

for gold to enter the cathode sky,

to wish upon an icy star

for an earthly paradise,

sweating to hold handfuls of utopia

to build a structure

that renders tomorrow benign,

pointless within the absence

of answers, a celebration

to the fall of the word.

[title borrowed from Dark Tranquillity's eponymous song]