Truth

the shrines of innocence are wet with rain
ignored as grassy knolls filled with heroes from the past
truth has died, a toast to truth
and let the man who can separate the wine from the man
be pierced himself by the brutal knife of candour
asleep the everlasting foe will rise
within the body of a glass a slow rotating drill of vapour
a sloth and animated mist and forming slowly forming
into silver titans arraigned against the hills
and blind horizons on their knees are pleading for reprieve
salutations to your bold new world
a greeting met with straight
in my less elanic paradise the gates are open
and if the ushers of ecstacy will grip my hand
and will and honesty and foresight flow through my arm
to fire the hearthstones of my heart
i will hope uphold the vaultstone of the shrine
and see my bones encrypted in its monolith