Something stood still-
A barrier to his will ;
As if efforts are meant to be laughed at,
And the world lived far away from the facts.
A day would come , someday,
Where all that was not his would fall;
In a sudden breath of brilliance ,
Life would seem high away in the stars.
Until till , everyday and night ,
He dreamt and saw them high;
His morning star ,he waited for,
The time for the inner call.
Till then he lay , his dreams
never dormant , yet for a few moments,
His mind did torment and remind him
Of days , when love scant and fray.
The wall did stand still ,
But he did paint it -
till it does fall finally,
The paint was a coat of sanity.
And as he does see it as just another wall ,
For the world, he is just another brick in the wall*
But nothing else matters*,
Someday*, things will flipside*,
An overture will break it and give him life
And as the first allegro breaks from the largo,
Life then slowly does seem to raise to the Prestissimo ,
And to the ulterior he can move and grow.
What is within is forever,
The spirit, the will of one will never
Fade into the common commotion of noise
But will rather stand out-the voice of the insane poise.
What does matter does lay in wait,
Down the path ,through the fare way
Placed by our own actions and our plays
Which do make , a butterfly ,
The harbinger of the universe's fate.
A picture is never complete,
For the world never accepts defeat,
For its desire is to seek,
The purpose and raise higher,
To where the rising sun is lower
And the plains and hills of Earth a blur,
Beyond the bright tempting azure.
But it was about him and not the world,
But it is about him and not the world,
But it will be about him and not the world,
A conceited almost nullity,
Yet if not for him , what could be?
And where will be the ability to see
And hear him and his temperament
His staunch vivacity?
The picture is complete,
For finally The artist does paint the eye,
And the work does come alive ,
And the protagonist does abide,
None. For he is born out of a will ,
And until it is fulfilled, he will walk
The land , how ever long it is spanned
And fulfil the thoughts plan.
Independence contingent upon man,
Destiny presupposed , yet a juxtapose
Did did I rise and it did choose,
And so it will never lose.
Man's work is to break Inability,
To achieve it or not is destiny.
Mortality is lost ,
When sense of reality is found.
The only justice is poetic,
And it is set into a music,
The matrix when one does act,
The feeling we know it for a fact.
The light shines the brightest
*- Name of songs.
