Trapped in the ritual of solipsism,
the misery leaks from the walls
stains and molds our eyes.
We've been for a long time
the prophets of the distances' cult.
We barely know where we are
with the smoke of the pyres we've darken the sky,
like a solar eclipse, as we decompose.
Misleaded by our own myth,
we lay in the shade of the hills,
will-o-the wisp in the night
as we decompose.
When the scars align they glow,
our wrinkles become calligraphy
and form a manuscript.
That's the legacy of our deepest secrets
since the day we've raised
an empty cathedral made of sand,
waiting for the tide.
Let's decorate this void
let's play pretend
so we can ignore that
we've never been anywhere.
Illuminated by the funeral piles
we cast a shadow much bigger than us.
In its darkness we can hide from ourselves,
bending the knees to the solstices' lights
at the burial of the sun,
the harvest of the ash.
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