Saturday, October 11, 2003

Statue Heads

Strange days have found us
Strange days have tracked us down
They're going to destroy
Our casual joys
We shall go on playing
Or find a new town

Strange eyes fill strange rooms
Voices will signal their tired end
The hostess is grinning
Her guests sleep from sinning
Hear me talk of sin
And you know this is it

Strange days have found us
And through their strange hours
We linger alone
Bodies confused
Memories misused
As we run from the day
To a strange night of stone

- The Doors


Sometimes life throws too much too quickly at you.
The sands of sanity slip inexorably through the hands of time.

You clasp desperately at empty air.
And by the time it all starts making sense it is too late.
Your life stretches behind you; the end beckons mesmerisingly.

All pretentions to immortality and aspirations to greatness fade away.
You are what you should have always been.
Before you were made into what you had been.

You look behind and wonder what you were meant to be.
If you were meant to be anything at all.

A mere speck of insignificance in a sea of nothingness.
That is all you are.
That is all I am.

And we will vanish in an instant .
Like dust in the wind.
So will all our existentialist angst.

The pain, the sorrow.
It will mean nothing tomorrow.
For then it will be someone else's time.

And so it goes. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

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