Arbtirary thoughts on nearly everything from a modernist poet, structural mathematician and functional programmer.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Sylvia

I
The event of a lifetime is almost underway
The children laugh and sing, let them play.
The eyes of innocence look on and make another wish:
For wishes can come true when they are pure.
A candle burns, wax trickles down to rest on weathered wood
Between to chairs set facing through the glow.
The winter winter wind comes wandering in
To freeze the silent pose.
No matter how it tries, the candle glows.
No matter how it tries...

In one chair sits Sylvia
with sullen eyes and a weak chin,
next to Father Time with his shoulders black and grim.
They've been sitting there with steady glares
unblinking and unchanged,
contemplating something dark and lonely.
They've been sitting there for hours,
days, and, weeks, and months, and years,
waiting for their moment to arrive
The anthem plays a melody that's in and out of time.

The light that flickers only has one point of view
surrounding darkness makes itself a home.
The girl was of fine color and was shaped of gold;
the man was pallid white and set in stone.
The rose with frozen petals never withers in the sun.
The mind that never learns never forgets!
The winter wind comes wondering in
the freeze the heart and skin.
No matter how it tries the candle glows.

Twinkling lights and merry men are dancing in the street
as shining figures bustle to and fro.
The snow is softly falling like a blanket in the cold,
with fakes that warm the hearts of those who let them.
There is one place along the way that's dimly lit and grey,
but no one seems to notice in their joy.
The wintering wind comes wandering in to hear it's own self blow.
No matter how it tries, the candle glows.

In one chair sits Sylvia
with sullen eyes and a weak chin,
next to Father Time with his shoulders black and grim.
They've been sitting there with steady glares
unblinking and unchanged,
contemplating something dark and lonely.
They've been sitting there for hours,
days, and, weeks, and months, and years,
waiting for their moment to arrive.
Finally a slow grin played across her daring face,
and the old bag grew a look of sudden horror.
With that the old man died and smashed his wrinkled, balding head,
and the girl got up and left the room and went ot into the winter wind and...

II
She walked out through the snow.
She left the body there.
The flakes fell to her face,
and her face fell to the ground.
She listened as the chaos swelled around.
While the church ahead began to ring the bells
That thundering sound
lifted her to her feet and
she walked on.

She continued down the road.
The monotony had made restless beyond words.
She found a shovel and dug a big pothole.
Then a carriage crashed and made a big and deafening sound
Police gathered round.
The flakes fell to her face,
while her eyes
turned them to water.

The owner yelled and called her terrible names,
"Whore! Wench! What have you done?"
They cuffed her up and took her shovel away
but then the sun came out
and dried the stuff from her face.
She smiled sweet, apologized, and walked her self away.

Now you're hear in my heart
and you know who you are.
No one's going to clean up this mess:
the wheels have fallen off,
the current's gonna take you where you want,
but you keep on running,
The current's gonna make you who you are.
You know your smile's growing stronger,
while your stride is getting longer:
You're gonna make it out,
on your own.

~By the Butterfly Assassins

2 comments:

Fitzpatrick said...

What.
The.
Heck.

I never ever ever even realized the two songs were all one story until now. That makes so much sense, I don't see how I missed that. Like, they even numbered them...

Wow do I feel stupid now. Thank you for this!

Cory said...

haha. Yeah; I heard Sylvia 2 long before I had heard Sylvia 1, and after I heard 1, 2 made so much more sense to me.

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