Through all virtues of my able being, as I walk through life with solem sight. My glance wonders off amongst my neighbors as they toil and pit along the day.
Picking and hacking at the daily routine, only to gather that of hopeless mean. As the plays ends and fade to black, we work to die ... sunken and flat
But is this what it's meant to be? Am I that of which has no desire to conform in the barriers of which life transpires? Am I lost? Weary as drunken steps they take? Never to fall in line? Never to wake?
Am I really not that helpless sheep? Following the field, the masses and sleep?
Am I really that detached? So far gone, never attached?
Am I that dead? Dead to that of that life has stereotyped? I say, as I walk against the brush and bush, pushing against the masses ... misunderstood
No, I am not you. I am not that man. I died a long time ago, yet I walk within your land.
I bid farewell to the petty sheep, the wondering masses who grovel at the feet of false idols, praying for a life of which they keep.
For we will not meet kindly again
Nor do I wish to see what reckless bleak you hope to achieve. Take this rose, my parting gift to all those who intended to remain asleep.
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