Now the thunderhead rolls, black,
the sky a canvas for lightning dreams.
I saw the light not long ago,
not long ago it sat on pale blue.
But, as time changes, there is no stars,
no light, only the deep rumble.
Of the thunder, and the Machines that chase it.
Putting an end to purpose, end to its cause.
The flame lords pause, and keep their paths in the sky dormant.
For they are taken aback.
They seem to ponder in the stillness of the dark,
wonder why these creatures seek so desperately
to end the natural cycle of things.
To avoid the unavoidable, for now.
I watch as thoughts come to actions, and the violence storms again.
Bolts in unscriptable forms.
Infernos blot the mountain shadows,
and the dry turns to damp as the rain manifests itself
to our small waking world.
It's odd how the water brings with it fire.
Just like after every abysmal night, the echoed sunlight blooms in our windows.
As two bolts form mid-sky and venture down into the tree's domain,
these gods show their purpose and a cinder sparks.
It seems that all across the world, we sit on a web.
With our fingers on the silk, strumming,
each, our very own beat. And eventually, the rhythm of the strums,
will all melt into the same cycling loop.
The fire throws itself across the treetops, leaving the roots unscarred.
But they still feel the pain.
And the flame yells,
"As long as your lives are the same.
As long as your breath repeats
and as your eyes watch each other,
Survive all but the moving red."
For it was created before us,
and we harnessed, for us.
And we all know, eventually, it will destroy us.
Now we have the fire that is cold to the touch.
Radiant as heavenly clouds and thoughts that spew unkempt.
We brighten the darkness with the smile of our cities, our everglowing beacon to the distant stars, our reflection to space.
I want to pass the torch to those more responsible.
Because the youth wants death,
and to tear down happiness in our doubted drinking games.
And the flames know all of this, they sense the fear we have
for the unknown and loss of the fleeting lives we exist next to.
And the pupils of my eyes grow bright with the reflection of orange.
The corruption starts in the fingertips.
For without the touch of soft.
Or the shock of hot.
We would never wish to control.
Those is charge are laying cold,
and all the hope we have is drunk on chemicals.
I want to know which way north lies.
For if I escape the centrifuge,
at a distance,
the beautiful blue sparking flames strikes my thoughts.
Makes me realize, destruction is creation,
and, unless your mind is wrapped in bubbling, scorching chaos,
I feel as if it's right.
It now seems distant, and the bright recedes.
I guess peace can only be attained,
once the fire subsides.
And, thanks to the cautious decisions of our weary ancestors, hope is all we can do.
For another strike, alone and fierce, pierces a far closer tree,
wrapping it in red.
It seems the world lies passive, for the cameras catch our every movement.
And we all act different when somebody's around.
But they can't catch the flame, they only watch us.
Time to flip the switch and embrace your engulfed spent night.
Now cinders only smoke, but the coals are still red.
And they all now lie in our children's hands.
Those who are the cavedwellers of the mind,
just passing the time,
leaving their thoughts behind.
For me, it seems the place and the hour.
To step into the line of fire.
To step into the line for fire.
With the black sky now orange, vacant and moving,
Hold your arms out,
I'm now running with the wolves.