by Aaron Faust

Created on: July 18, 2011

The clocks are burning, the world is still
Yet this means naught to the man on the hill
He's aged now, his body breaks
But he might be dead for the crying he makes

He's seen the four points through innocent eyes
Watched the world build its most perfect disguise
For all of his knowing, he has paid a price
What is he now but the Devil's device?

What can he be? Oh, most wretched soothsayer
Blind to compassion and mute upon prayer
What can he say but condolences here,
Memorial there, and no kind word, I fear

What can he see but the end of the world?
The darkness into which the future unfurls
What can he hear but the sky screaming murder?
Red from the bloodlust and Augustine fervor

What can he smell but the black corpse of God?
Dead daddy dearest and ancient facade
What can he feel but the rain's gentle lash?
Heaven now falling as ember and ash

What can he taste but his own useless flesh?
Lucifer's construct of leathery mesh
What can he be but the man on the hill
With capable hands and a new world to fill?

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