“So, here we find ourselves again, 


and one might think it such a pity to be standing on the razor’s edge. 

O’, how Occam would be ashamed.” 



Or so the dreams appear to say. 

They tell of numb and wretched men who’ve strayed far from the path, 

they tell of nameless, faceless men whose every detail shrouds

itself in myth and with poeticism, with insight and with tragic glee. 



O’, what does this speak of me if I look on so curious and unappeased? 

Would such a thing be read and understood so easily? 


If it was to be, then surely it would be? 

This surely is a dichotomy so prevalent and irrevocably elegant, 

so I’ve come to see.

 



Then, why does it haunt me so?
 

What agency is mine to bring to a union with the pre-ordained?
 

What have the fates to gain from a destitute and witless being, 

long discarded by the way? 



So is this a treatise or is it a game? 


Is this pleasure or is it pain? 


Or is there something more elusive? 


Perhaps this could be destiny? 


But as long as I draw breath I’ll not let it make a fool of me, 


Lest I wander to the gallows and hang until I’m dead. 

I’ve seen the mountain in my dreams, and I shall seek it ’til the end.
 



So beneath the sight of God 

shall I forever more retreat into the pines and find my place in the all. 

In the everything, might I just overcome? 


But what of you, my dear? 


O’, what of you, my love? 

O’, how I’d hate to see us part. 




But I must deceive you again. 

I’m sorry but the voice that calls me rings inside my head. 

It pains me so, the visions torment amidst my fears and sins. 

But nothing wagered, nothing earned. 

And for this, a rose I leave beside your head. 

Our crown of thorns.